The messenger

Home. Dashvara Trilogy, Book 3: The Eternal Bird

29 The messenger

The Ragail captain reacted at first with a skeptical frown, then shrugged his shoulders and, without even answering, said to one of his men:

They stepped aside, and Kuriag Dikaksunora stepped forward. Lessi, Zraliprat, Asmoan, and Api followed him. The young elf was covered in a thick fur coat and wore a dagger on his belt. A dagger, Dashvara repeated to himself in disbelief. Since when did the peaceful Dikaksunora carry weapons? Kuriag met his eyes before turning to the horsemen who had been chasing Dashvara and who were now arriving like a mighty thunder, raising a dense cloud of dust. Among the Essimeans was Ashiwa, Todakwa’s brother, Dashvara noticed. One of the sibilians shouted from his horse:

“My respects, Excellency! This man escaped from my master’s camp with the help of this woman. We have been following them since Lamasta. And we believe two more headed north.”

Kuriag nodded slowly. His rather impassive expression didn’t precisely calm Dashvara. The sibilian stepped down.

“I’ve seen everything here that I wanted to visit and I was already thinking of returning to Lamasta. You can go back and inform Arviyag, soldier. My men will take care of the other two fugitives as well as these two.”

Despite its natural lack of expression, the sibilian’s face reflected a certain resentment as his eyes fell on Dashvara, as if it was Dashvara’s fault that he hadn’t been able to sleep all night… and, in a way, it was. He nodded curtly.

“Yes, Excellency. However, we have been informed that this woman is not your slave but a freedwoman. She has entered our master’s own tent. Her actions deserve punishment. I ask your permission to take her to my master.”

Dashvara tensed and half-swallowed a hoarse growl, turning to Kuriag. The Titiaka breathed in.

“Yira is the adopted daughter of a good friend of mine from Titiaka. I hope Arviyag will take that into account.”

Dashvara was stunned, or rather, outraged. Was Kuriag really giving this sibilian permission to take Yira away? He stood up abruptly, stepping between his naâsga and the sibilian.

“She’s a freedwoman,” Kuriag replied. Dashvara was surprised by his dry tone. He softened it slightly when he added, “I’m sure Arviyag will merely seek compensation from Atasiag Peykat.”

“I’m afraid you’re in a bad position to demand anything, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Devils, devils, devils… Dashvara felt Yira’s hand against his. He gently squeezed it. He had not expected this at all. Wasn’t Yira a close friend of Lessi’s? And she got along well with Kuriag. Why the hell was that Federate letting them take her away? To punish you, Dash. To show you how badly you’ve behaved… If only he could explain to him the consequences of leaving Yira in the hands of Arviyag’s men! Seeing three sibilians approaching, he hurriedly called out:

“Arviyag holds all my people in chains. I beg you, Excellency. You don’t know what this man is capable of. If you’ll allow me to speak to you in private…”

The Ragail captain himself interrupted him, grabbing him by the arm with one of his men and forcing him away from Yira. And as the sibilians grabbed her, Dashvara gasped, a stream of curses stuck in his throat, and he stammered a dying:

When they tried to take off her gloves and bind her hands, Yira resisted by struggling and enveloping herself with chaotic harmonies, the Ragails undid her spells, and Dashvara burst into curses. He had the wisdom to imprecate in Oy’vat. When they finally managed to remove the sursha’s right glove and revealed her bone hand, a silence of pure amazement fell over Amystorb’s dungeon. Dashvara took advantage of the moment. His racing mind cleared enough to realize that the two Ragails holding him were as stunned as the others at such a sight. With a jerk, he broke free and lunged towards Sunrise, dodged a sibilian’s arm, grabbed the mare’s neck and went up so fast that pain throbbed in his arm, but he barely noticed. His eyes were focused solely on Yira. He reached for her and… two sibilians who were in his way grabbed him and took advantage of the fact that he was still unsteady on his feet to pull on him. Dashvara fell heavily to the ground, and the pain exploded in his head. He heard Sunrise neigh in surprise and felt her rub her nostrils against his shoulder, as if to make sure he wasn’t hurt. Hurt? He was. Mortally wounded, at that. His heart had burst into a thousand pieces. Because he knew that, by the time he got to his feet, Yira would be dead. Dead.

The scream echoed in other throats. Dashvara finally managed to raise his head and was stunned by what he saw. His naâsga had revealed her white hair and mortic face as if in defiance of death, and both the Essimeans who accompanied Kuriag and those who had pursued them had reacted not with horror but with obvious wonder. The proof of this was that many had fallen to their knees and were still clamouring:

If Dashvara remembered his Galka lessons correctly, the word meant “the messenger”. And not just any messenger, he guessed with amazement. They had taken her for the messenger of Skâra.

The reaction of the Essimeans further confused the sibilians and Titiakas. The former had retreated in fear, while the Ragails, more steadfast, tried to assess the situation coolly. They dared not execute the undead nor approach her. Out of the corner of his eye, Dashvara saw how several of them had positioned themselves in front of Kuriag Dikaksunora, perhaps fearing that Yira might become a real danger to their protégé. Asmoan’s eyes glowed brightly; he had a horrified expression on his face. Lessi, very pale, was moving her lips as if she were whispering a prayer to Cili. As for Kuriag… the young elf looked like he had been hit on the head with an anvil.

Api had crouched beside Dashvara. The Xalya was feeling as if a brizzia had crushed his right arm. He grunted.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, understanding what this young demon was getting at. That Atasiag had adopted a necromancer girl when demons abominated the death arts was…

“Interesting,” Api said, receiving no immediate response. Yes, interesting, to say the least, Dashvara completed. Not to say that it could get Atasiag into serious trouble when the news flew to Titiaka. The boy added, “Well, your wife has a chance of a thousand demons. These death worshippers are literally in ecstasy.”

Dashvara grunted in response, sitting up straight despite the pain. He took Sunrise’s head in his hands as she pawed restlessly, and he whispered softly:

Kindly, the young demon held out a hand to help him up. Dashvara hesitated, looking at him in amazement. I spoke to Sunrise in Oy’vat and that boy answered me in the Common Tongue… Really, I’m going to end up believing that demons can speak the Wise Tongue of the Ancient Kings. Shaking his head, he ignored Api’s helping hand, muttering, I’m not hurt, kid, and instead stood up, clutching at Sunrise’s leaning neck. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t hurt, or at least that was his impression, but he was dead tired and all the commotion around him wasn’t helping him focus. Once he was on his feet, however, all his attention was fixed on his naâsga. Her gaze reflected a mixture of amazement, concern, and fear, and when he met it, Dashvara pouted, guessing that neither of them knew how to handle the situation. He took a step towards Yira, but stopped when he saw Ashiwa of Essimea himself kneel before her. The Essimean said something, but it was in Galka, and Dashvara could not understand it. And, obviously, his naâsga even less. But, hell, who would imagine that the messenger of Skâra would not know the language of his worshippers? Dashvara suppressed a snort and turned his head toward the Ragails. Captain Djamin had joined Kuriag and was speaking to him in a low, agitated voice while the young man kept his eyes fixed on the black and blue magic that vibrated on Yira’s face. Black for death and blue for immortality, Dashvara thought in wonder.

Praise a hundred thousand times, he thought, gasping. Because his believers had just saved Yira’s life. At least for now.

Amazement gradually gave way to various reactions. Approaching on their knees, the Essimeans all spoke at once in Galka, transported, in a hubbub of prayers, requests, and blessings addressed to the Messenger. And Ashiwa, as Todakwa’s brother, showed no less faith and fervor. After all, everything in the image that Yira offered indicated to them that she was without doubt a messenger of Skâra. The sibilians, for their part, had regrouped and were casting questioning glances at Kuriag Dikaksunora and the Ragail captain, waiting for their intervention. Which did not come. Instead, Ashiwa made the first move; realizing that his people were making a spectacle of themselves and that Yira was not answering probably because she did not understand the Galka, he stood up, bowed to the messenger, and said in the Common Tongue:

“Allow me, Arazmihá, to have the honor of guiding you to our lords Todakwa and Daeya so that you may deliver the Message to them.”

The message, Dashvara repeated to himself, confused. Liadirlá… what message? At that moment, two Ragails blocked his view, grabbed him, and dragged him away. Dashvara did not protest. Now that Yira was safe, he didn’t care about anything but sleeping. Sleep. Yes, he wished he could have slept through the day. But they wouldn’t let him. They took him into a tent—Kuriag’s tent—searched him, took off his shelshami, made him kneel down, and one of them grabbed him, and punched him in the stomach, leaving him breathless.

“That’s for deceiving us, Xalya,” the Ragail growled at him. And, placing a hand on his head, he slammed it against the earth without too much roughness, adding, “If you raise your head again, I’ll let you have a taste of my new whip.”

Dashvara still did not answer. The Ragails were being more forgiving than he had expected. Maybe they felt sorry for him too. After all, Compassion was one of Cili’s Graces, and these elite soldiers were good Cilians…

In this position, he was sure to fall asleep within minutes. Unfortunately, Kuriag arrived too soon. He heard his voice near the entrance of the tent. He heard horses’ hooves. And he heard various shouts that told him the Federates were breaking camp. Finally, he heard footsteps in the tent, and a Ragail pulled him by the hair to his feet. Dashvara looked up at Kuriag. The expression on Kuriag’s face did not bode well. The young elf was getting more than tired of the continuous surprises his slaves had in store for him.

“You knew,” he threw out in a tone that was at the time incredulous, disgusted, and accusatory. “Does Atasiag know?”

“Atasiag was my master before you. Even if he knew, I would not betray him. But I assure you he did not know Yira was using the arts of Skâra,” he lied.

An annoyed glint passed through Kuriag’s eyes. He opened and closed his fists. Dashvara suppressed a mocking pout.

Well, Excellency? Do you feel like using the whip? Well, go ahead and do it. You’ll prove that your Eternal Bird is not as peaceful as you said.

Kuriag must have seen the mockery in his expression, for he let out a snort and croaked:

“Keep laughing at me, Dashvara, and you’ll know what it’s like to have a Titiaka master.”

“Quiet,” Kuriag cut him off. And he made a curt gesture. “I mistakenly believed that the Eternal Bird was an ideal, a way of life towards a civilization of peace and tolerance. You have deceived me, Xalya. The Eternal Bird is a delusion. A fraud. It died with the Ancient Kings.” He shook his head and corrected, “It died with Maloven. But the essence, the energy that vibrated in the Ancient Kings, died with them. And it has not returned, nor will it ever return to your clan.”

Dashvara frowned. The energy that vibrated in the Ancient Kings… The demons, he realized with a twitch. Kuriag was referring to demons. Had Asmoan told him about them? Presumably. But he didn’t seem to have told him everything. In particular, he didn’t seem to have told him literally about demons. Otherwise, if they had found out that the Xalyas were descendants of demons… the Liadirlá knew what his benevolent master would have thought, but in any case he would not have used the word “peace” or “tolerance”.

As the silence dragged on, Dashvara fought off fatigue and tried to think of an answer. That the Eternal Bird was a delusion, he said? A fraud? He gasped and let out:

“Absurd?” the Titiaka repeated then. “It is not. In fact, it is the reality: the Xalyas disowned the Eternal Bird two centuries ago. They betrayed their king along with other peoples of the steppe. Like that of Amystorb,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the dungeon. “You doomed the kingdom to extinction. You killed each other. And the reason you don’t do it now is because you can’t. Because, if you send your people to fight now, it will die out forever. Not because you do not wish to struggle. Not because you are not capable of killing. Before you fled, you said you would choose hope and you would choose swords, but you soon realized that you were too weak. And that your only hope here… was me.”

Kuriag’s green eyes turned to him with a mixture of defiance and authority. He added:

“Now I understand that I was wrong about you, Dashvara. You want to save your people, and nothing else exists for you. I respect your feelings. But I don’t respect your ways. You’ve betrayed my trust again and again, and you’ve proven that you’re not capable of taking care of your clan any better than I am. To make matters worse, you run away from Arviyag and Garag’s camp, begging me to help you, even though I specifically ordered my cousins to take care of you while I was away. Did you think, then, that Arviyag was chastising your people without my consent?”

Dashvara returned a look of pure amazement, and another wave of sadness mixed with guilt and fear oppressed his heart.

What did you expect? he growled. That after mocking him in front of everyone repeatedly, he would forgive you just by kneeling before him? You didn’t just lose his trust, Dash. You also attacked his dignity. His family is setting him straight, and you’re not the one who’ll restore his Eternal Bird because you’re the one who stabbed it.

“I thought so, Excellency. With all due respect, I thought so. I’m sorry.”

They both looked into each other’s eyes until Dashvara lowered his head and thought, I’m sorry that neither of us will be able to break free of who we are.

“Don’t pretend,” Kuriag then said briskly breaking the silence. “Don’t feign a submission you don’t feel.”

“Believe me, I feel it, Excellency. I feel it and I suffer it, but I would suffer it far more if you left my people in the hands of Arviyag.”

“Then perhaps that is what I should do,” Kuriag replied with obvious irritation. “To tame a horse, you start by tying it very short before you give it more freedom, isn’t that true?”

No, federate. To tame a horse, you must first let it run. He swallowed. So it’s like that, you no longer want to set us free. You want us all to yourself, don’t you? Because your family told you, enough is enough. Because now you truly believe that we Xalyas, we are unable to fend for ourselves. Because we are a lost and abandoned people who don’t even have an “Eternal Bird” vibrating inside. Have you forgotten what Maloven taught you, Kuriag? The Eternal Bird is not a fraud, it is not an energy, it is a star that guides and shines in all hearts.

Dashvara would have liked to tell him that, but Kuriag didn’t give him the time. In a tense, saturated tone, he ordered:

The Ragails put Dashvara on his feet and led him out of the tent. They did not bind his hands; it was not necessary. They simply led him back to Sunrise, and one of them said to him:

Dashvara nodded without loosening his lips, soothed Sunrise, released the saddle and harness and, despite his fatigue, continued to care for her and gave her a drink before making her lie down. Finally he lay down against her, glancing around. Most of the tents had already been packed up, the sibilians were saddling their mounts, and a few steppians had stepped forward to lead the way. In the distance, crossing the plain to the southeast, the distant silhouettes of a dozen horsemen could still be seen. It was Ashiwa and his men. And, no doubt, they had taken Yira with them. Dashvara couldn’t help but feel a dull ache, even though he knew his naâsga was safer with the Essimeans than with the Federates. He doubted that Todakwa and his wife would be as gullible as Ashiwa but…

He would have bet his sabers. Sabers you don’t have, Dash, he reminded himself, lowering his gaze. His eyes fell on the red marks on his wrists, and he cursed Arviyag. He remembered the satisfied expression on his face three years ago when he had appeared in the torture chamber and listened to Paopag’s report. What had happened then was foggy in Dashvara’s mind, but he remembered that at one point the Titiaka trader had laid his hand on his head and said lightly, You will live, young man. You will live and serve the Federation. And he had been right: for three years, Dashvara had served the Federation. And there was every indication that he would have to keep serving it. Unless a blessed red snake bit Garag and Arviyag. Unless Kuriag changed his mind… Dashvara sighed and rubbed his eyes, exhausted. The morning light barely warmed the earth, and the wind continued to blow, carrying scattered clouds across the sky at great speed. The wind was now coming directly from the Bladhy Desert, and the air, laden with a sandy haze, was dry and cold. But this did not prevent Dashvara from sinking quickly into a deep sleep.

He dreamed that he was walking on the steppe, not the steppe of Kawalsh, but the steppe of Xalya. The sparse grass turned to dry earth and sand, the shrubs disappeared, and the Dungeon of Xalya in the distance was as beautiful as ever. He was alone. There was nothing in this vast expanse of land but air, distance, and immensity. Then his father’s voice called behind him:

“Behold, son, the land of your birth. Respect it because it is yours and you belong to it.”

Dashvara wanted to turn around, but for some strange reason he couldn’t, so he kept going.

“The savages have stolen the land from you,” his lord father added with evident rage. “The savages and foreigners invaded the steppe and killed my people. Your people.” His voice grew louder as he said, “Kill them all, son. KILL THEM.”

The scream was so loud that Dashvara woke up feeling as if he had a pack of milfids screaming in his ears. He supported his head, gasping:

He received a light kick from a boot, and as he looked up, he saw Captain Djamin looking at him questioningly.

Dashvara nodded and stood up at the same time as Sunrise, noticing that the sky was now completely clear and that a good hour had passed since he had fallen asleep with that stupid dream.

Dishonor them, he repeated to himself. Sure, and how do you expect me to do it, my lord? By spitting in their faces? Even you don’t know what you would do if you were in my place, father. Without swords, without men, without dignity… You were so afraid to die like that that you chose to die taking your brothers with you. I don’t condemn you. Perhaps my Eternal Bird is too attached to hope. But yours was too attached to pride.

He took the canteen and drank before worrying about Sunrise. Most people were already riding away, heading east. East? Dashvara repeated to himself, frowning. Lamasta was to the southeast. Captain Djamin had just mounted his own horse when he said:

Dashvara glanced at him in surprise and almost asked if slaves were also required to tell their dreams, but he changed his mind and shrugged before climbing onto Sunrise.

“It’s quite simple. I was walking on the steppe, and my father said to me: kill them all. He told me the same thing a few hours before he died. And the thing is, I haven’t killed them all yet.”

Captain Djamin had frowned. They were at the tail of the procession. In front of them, his men were riding. Kuriag Dikaksunora was almost at the head of the line beside his wife. After a silence, the Ragail calmly questioned:

Why in the world are you telling this to this foreigner, Dash? Because fatigue is making you think like a red nadre. Or because you simply need to talk about something. Or to talk about this to anyone. Or maybe not to anyone. So far, Djamin has always proven to be an honorable man, you have respect for him and… bam, here you are talking to him about killing them all. Very clever, Dash. Maybe he’ll get you in handcuffs just in case, you know?

“In the dream, he didn’t specify. But, anyway, captain, it was a stupid dream, as I said. Nothing more.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and then saw that the Ragail was handing him the shelshami. Really? Was he giving it back to him? No doubt he didn’t know what it represented. With a mixture of astonishment and avidity, he took it back.

It was true: his mother had found it when she was still living as a nomadic Xalya trading with the Bladhy tribes. And she had given it to her husband years later. It was almost strange that she hadn’t given him a skull instead, he thought with some irony. Perhaps Dakia of Xalya had not been so gruesome in her youth.

Impassive, Djamin said nothing more, and Dashvara promptly adjusted the black scarf on his head. They rode for a long time in silence, crossing the stream and advancing towards the endless, bare hills that populated the area between Aralika and Lamasta. Was this some kind of shortcut to the latter? It didn’t look like it. It looked more like they were heading for the former. The sky, blue at dawn, had become cloudy, and a chill wind was whipping Dashvara’s face. It chilled him to the bone, but at least it washed away his fatigue. It was not long before the rain came down on them, accompanied by deafening lightning and thunder. A sibilian pointed through the rain to a lone tree that had caught fire, and Dashvara, fascinated, remembered in that instant the words of the Shalussi sage: Storms and drought will wipe out your empire if you are not careful, Todakwa. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Djamin make a devotional sign in Cili’s name.

The storm did not last: it passed almost as quickly as a flash of lightning and left the steppe scarcely more humid and the air diaphanous and serene. The Titiakas and their slaves climbed back on their horses, glancing at the tree that continued to blaze in the distance. Now they were heading northeast, Dashvara realized. Taking advantage of the fact that Captain Djamin was riding close by, he asked him:

They took several breaks during the day and bought milk from a group of Essimean shepherds, but Dashvara was not invited to eat or drink. He did not complain. In any case, he was so tired that he did not feel hungry or cold. He could hardly even realize how tired he was. Towards evening, they stopped at the foot of a hill where an old Shalussi watchtower stood and pitched tents. Forgotten by the others who were busy, Dashvara looked after Sunrise as best he could, whispering soft words into her ear and caressing her as he recited in Oy’vat:

Ride, brother, ride,
Let the sun shine on your path
And open the closed doors
To your Eternal Bird in its bosom.
In your heart and in your land
Make your own destiny
Honor your clan with love
And strength of spirit.
Ride, brother, ride
Toward the cruel enemy.

His tender voice betrayed more sadness than vehemence. He repeated in a whisper:

“Honor your clan with love and strength of spirit. Love I do not lack, Sunrise,” he murmured, stroking her between the ears as she laid her large head in his lap. “And I do not lack courage. Nor the Eternal Bird, no matter what Kuriag says. What I lack is…”

His eyes lifted to the sibilians and the Ragails but barely stopped on them; they wandered beyond, to the rays of sunlight that still lit the sky towards the west. He sighed and looked down again at his mare with a melancholic half-smile.

“What I need are two hundred pearls like you. A steppeman without a horse is a bird without wings.”

“Nice phrase,” Api’s voice said. Dashvara gasped. The young demon was approaching him with a bowl. He handed it to him and, as Dashvara was slow to respond, added, “A man without food is a bag of bones.”

“Don’t thank me. It was Djamin who asked me to bring it to you.” He crouched down as Dashvara gulped down the dinner and watched him for a moment before adding, “It’s funny. Oy’vat, I mean. So different from Tajal and at the same time so similar. I’ll be able to speak it in no time at all.”

Dashvara returned a thoughtful look before setting the empty bowl down and asking:

“The Tongue,” he answered, with emphasis on the two words. “Oy’vat comes from it. But it’s much softer and less guttural and… maybe a little simpler. Yes, I believe it is. Learning Tajal is a living hell. That’s why I asked my mentor to teach me.” He let out a few soft grunts as if something had gotten stuck in his throat and smiled broadly. “I just said goodnight to you.”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement, for indeed he thought he recognized the strange guttural sound as a simple “Taü srin”. He shook his head.

Dashvara nodded, and as the demon moved away into the growing shadows of dusk, he whispered:

That night, he had the same dream again, but worse, for along with his father’s voice came the image of Sheroda’s yellow eyes repeating, “You are guilty, you have killed!” and this, together with his father’s sempiternal “kill them all”, confused him so much that he woke up soon after falling asleep, breathing heavily, and he did not sleep a wink for the rest of the night.

His eyes gazed at the stars for a long time, as he once did in the courtyard of Atasiag’s house, except that, that night, Yira was not with him. The constellation of Scorpion was not visible: it was winter, and in winter, it wasn’t visible. Towards midnight, the stars were swallowed up by the clouds, and in a complete calm, the first snowflakes fell. They had been late in coming. This was a bad sign. As the saying goes: “Late snowflakes makes the winter long and sharp”. Wrapped in his cloak and huddled against Sunrise, Dashvara listened to the silence of the camp and tried in vain to fall asleep again. His mind seemed to have forgotten how to sleep.

Shortly before dawn, a murmur disturbed his unalterable vigil. He frowned and… heard a whisper again.

For a moment, he thought he had dreamed the mental voice, but then the shadow confirmed:

‘Yes. You can’t even imagine, it’s a real mess,’ he sighed. ‘I just got back from the camp where the others are. They’re just over there, a few hills away. They asked me about you, and I told them you were fine. Them, on the other hand… well, except for the younger ones, their hands are all tied and… I think more than one was whipped, but… I could barely talk to them because the Titiakas had lit quite a few torches around.’

Dashvara shuddered at his words. Hands tied. Whipped. And Kuriag knew about it. Yes, he surely did, didn’t he? And he was letting Arviyag abuse his slaves to tame them in their own land.

‘Tsu? I haven’t seen him,’ the shadow admitted, and he blew out a mental snort, muttering, ‘I don’t like snow. It tickles even more than the rain.’

Alarmed by Tah’s agitation, Sunrise raised her head. Dashvara calmed his mare with a gesture before asking in a low, curious voice:

‘Oh, well…’ Tahisran coughed. ‘It’s complicated. I went looking for Youk and found him, but I couldn’t talk to him because they put him in the death-priests’ tents. So, afterwards, I went to see Api. And it turns out he was with Asmoan, Kuriag, and his two cousins and…’ He hesitated, ‘I heard something I shouldn’t have. Something about the pact.’

“You heard that Arviyag and Garag would invalidate it for the Xalyas,” he guessed darkly.

‘That’s right,’ the shadow affirmed, embarrassed. ‘Kuriag didn’t want me to warn you because he was afraid you would try to run away. He told me it wasn’t in your best interest to run away, but he didn’t explain why and… Well, it just so happened that dawn caught me in the Essimean camp, I stuffed myself into Api’s pack, and… Boo, when I woke up, I was riding across the steppe visiting tombs and dungeons. Api said he only “half” realized I was in his bag. Mmph,’ he growled.

Dashvara couldn’t help but smile as he imagined Tahisran’s surprise upon awakening. The shadow added in a relativistic tone:

‘I suppose that, anyway, in daylight, I could hardly have returned to Lamasta without anyone seeing me. The steppe is a bad land for shadows.’

“Thank you for checking on my people, Tah. Arviyag will pay dearly for what he does,” he asserted and, realizing he had raised his voice slightly, lowered it as he murmured with no apparent connection, “The Essimeans took Yira away.”

There was silence. The snowflakes kept on falling. The sky, though overcast, was beginning to lighten. Yira, Dashvara thought with a sudden wave of anxiety. A horrible thought had just crossed his mind. What if Yira wasn’t so safe with the Essimeans, after all? What if…? The image of his naâsga sacrificed to the glory of Skâra assailed him, and a tremor ran through his body. After all, what did he know of the Essimeans and their Divinity? He knew nothing. Perhaps, after she had delivered her message, the Arazmihá would die and… He let out an exhausted groan.

“Why?” He straightened, his heart racing, before he lay back down, unconsciously clutching the shelshami bead in his fist. “My Eternal Bird is going to die, Tah,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m riding into Death, pursued by monsters. I’m damnably trapped. I know what Arviyag wants to do with me, and I don’t know how to stop him. But that’s not the worst of all. If anything happens to my naâsga, my death will be the most horrible of all deaths.”

His eyes had grown wide open, staring at the darkness as if a red snake had slithered into his heart to bite him. Whether it was his fatigue or his constant inner struggle, he felt like he was on the verge of losing his mind, much like the day Atasiag had taken him to Sheroda’s. Except this time it lasted much longer. Tah’s consolations were useless: they slipped away like water on glass. As soon as daylight broke, he mechanically ate what Api brought him, and the only thing he managed to do properly was to saddle up Sunrise and get on his horse to continue the journey. The Ragails, the sibilians, the men who had joined them from Lamasta… they all seemed to have come out of a dreadful unreal world.

You’re losing your cool, Dash, a small, exasperated voice told him. Think about it: your hands aren’t tied, no one has tortured you yet, and why would they? Kuriag is not like Arviyag. He will protect you all…

Bah. The thing is, you’re scared to death. Because of the thimbles. Admit it, he scoffed with a mental hiss.

His own thoughts kept him so busy that it was Sunrise who took it upon herself to follow the procession without the aid of her rider.

At nightfall, when they were setting up camp again, and as Dashvara watched from a distance as his people made their way across the steppe on foot, Api came and brought him dinner again, and this time, he said cheerfully:

“I hear your wife is creating quite a stir in Aralika. Todakwa is going to throw a big party in two weeks, and he has invited Kuriag to say goodbye before he leaves.”

“Yes. I don’t know much,” he admitted. “Except that Todakwa put her on a pedestal. Say, Dashvara, you know something? You look terrible. How long has it been since you last slept?”

“Really?” Api marveled. “You can sleep on a horse? Well, I slept on a dragon—but a horse!”

He was impressed. Dashvara grunted and made a slight gesture before turning his attention to his bowl. He was still chewing without much enthusiasm when he heard the sounds of boots on the ground and a dry voice saying:

Unsurprised, Dashvara looked up painfully into the greyish, impassive face of the sibilian. He was the one who had led the chase. Receiving no immediate response, two sibilians grabbed him, and Dashvara abandoned his bowl and stood up. Under Api’s worried, frowning gaze, he walked away, taking one last look at his mare, who was grazing quietly a few feet away, looking for grass in the snow. He saw her raise her head towards him, and he clicked his tongue gently, not to call her, but to tell her not to worry and to continue grazing.

Soon, he could no longer see her because of the tents, the workers, and the horses. What he could see, however, were the Xalyas, whom the sibilians were setting up, hands bound, in several rows for the night. Only the youngest children escaped such precautions, and one of them, recognizing Dashvara, wanted to come closer, but his mother called out to him harshly with a touch of fear in her voice. As for the Xalya warriors, they all looked up at him with the same expectant movement. Zamoy stretched his neck. Captain Zorvun looked relieved and worried at the same time. And in the face of so many eyes, Dashvara tried to look more energetic than he really was. But as soon as the sibilians brought him into a large tent, and he saw the table set up in the middle, his heart froze completely, and he lost his composure. On that table were ropes. And behind it stood Tsu, his sleeves rolled up and a black case in his hand.

In the drow’s stony face, his eyes blazed, terrified. Dashvara suddenly felt overwhelmed by a wave of memories more vivid than ever. The pain. The helplessness. The terror. Death… Pain, he repeated to himself, dizzy. And he began to tremble from head to toe.