31 The Sons of the Eternal Bird

The earth shook beneath his feet. The five savage chiefs were advancing towards him, their swords drawn. There was no mercy in their eyes. Only death. Qwadris made the first cut and vanished into the dark fog that filled the steppe. Shiltapi, the great black Akinoa, was next. He lifted his axe, exposing his yellow teeth, and without a word he cut it down. At that moment, Dashvara thought, confused:

The Shalussis killed you. Raxifar lied to me. You are alive!

Then he felt Nanda’s cold blade of Shalussi coming from behind him and pressing against his throat.

This is justice, he acknowledged calmly; I did the same thing.

When Nanda disappeared and Dashvara died for the third time, it was the turn of Lifdor of Shalussi to approach; but the nearer he came the less visible he was, and at last, the savage disappeared before he could reach Dashvara. Only the tattooed figure of Todakwa, the son of Death, remained in the dark, dead steppe. In a suspended silence, the Essimean opened his mouth and a voice from beyond the grave echoed in Dashvara’s head:

“Your destiny is defeat. Civilization wins, the past loses.”

“Loses…” the echo said.

“The Eternal Bird does not exist.”

“Loses, loses…”

Suddenly, the earth shook with a creaking sound and Todakwa’s face turned into a skull that grew and grew, stretching its deathly mouth towards Dashvara, towards the steppe, towards everything around him…

Dashvara woke up with a start. Unlike the other nights, Paopag had not come to talk to him and Darigat had not come with his thimbles either. He was not immune to nightmares, far from it. Since Paopag had left him, he had woken up at least a dozen times, covered in sweat, exhausted, anxious, surrounded by darkness and silence. Maybe it wasn’t even night. He could only tell by the meals that were brought to him… and sometimes he couldn’t always remember if he had eaten. Time became blurred and ceased to make sense.

This time, however, the door had opened, and a light now shone into the room. There was only a straw mattress, two chairs, and a sturdy table. In the doorway, Dashvara could make out several figures. He recognized Paopag’s, and a mixture of anxiety and relief, of hatred and affection, came over him.

“Paopag,” he uttered in a slow voice, straightening up awkwardly.

His movements, saturated with energy foreign to his body, were awkward and clumsy like his mind. However, he could feel a slight improvement now, surely due to the fact that he had not received any visitors that night.

Stumbling, he walked towards the table as usual. To his surprise, Paopag stopped him with one hand.

“No, my boy. Today we’re going to treat you like a prince. Come.”

He took him gently by the arm, as one takes a lost child, and Dashvara let himself be led away without question. He didn’t even think of asking any.

He was disconcerted, however, when Paopag beckoned him into a bathtub that several workers were filling with water. Dashvara obeyed, and the warm water revived him. At least a little. When he emerged from the tub, they gave him back the shirt, tunic, leather armor, and blue cloak of the Dikaksunora. They even gave him back the shelshami. Despite his numbness, Dashvara felt a certain irony. They had just destroyed the lord of the Xalyas, and these foreigners were still dressing him in the scarf of leadership. It was ridiculous.

Paopag examined him from head to toe and smiled.

“You’re ready. Do you remember the lessons?”

Dashvara nodded and was about to recite the spiel as usual, but Paopag stopped him, looking amused.

“I trust you to impress our guests. Let’s go.”

Dashvara followed him out of the room. They went up the stairs. And, for the first time, he saw daylight. That is, for the first time since… Well, since he was Dash, the slave of Paopag? Of Kuriag, he corrected with a shudder. Kuriag, not Paopag.

“Dash,” Paopag’s voice said suddenly.

Dashvara realized that he had stopped in the middle of a corridor without realizing it. He started walking again. Finally, they came to a living room where the sound of cutlery and voices could be heard. After seeing Kuriag at the end of the table, Dashvara stopped looking at the other faces. He didn’t see Yira, he didn’t see any Xalya: the rest was dust in his eyes.

Paopag stopped him with a gesture, and they both waited. Dashvara didn’t feel so dizzy anymore, and this fact held all his attention until Paopag gently pushed him forward. The guests had turned to them and were staring at him brazenly. A brief flash of lucidity made him realize that he had to do something.

The lessons, he thought. You must repeat them.

And he repeated them slowly, shuddering, for in his imagination his body continued to receive shocks and continued to suffer. He could not make sense of them, they were only sounds to him. Yet deep down he knew that in another life he would have turned pale if he had listened to any Xalya deny the Eternal Bird in this way, but… he was no longer a Xalya, he was not even a man. He was a slave. He had not finished his fourth sentence when, to his confusion, a guest interrupted him with a laugh:

“And this is the man whom two thousand citizens worship? Any prophet in Titiaka does better than him!”

People laughed. A human Titiaka between two ages intervened:

“I confess I am disappointed. But perhaps the manners of this savage are due to the fact that he is intimidated.”

Laughter ran through the table.

“Intimidated! Maybe so,” Arviyag opined with a slight smile as joking comments were heard.

Among these guests, only two people did not show a bit of joviality apart from Dashvara: Kuriag and Paopag. The former was pale. The second looked impatient and watched Dashvara carefully. The latter had turned towards him, dazed. His apathy was gradually giving way to a feeling of anxiety, and his breathing quickened. He wanted to return to the room with the table and the pallet. He wanted silence. He wanted Paopag to get him out of there. But he didn’t dare ask.

“Well!” Kuriag then said. His voice trembled slightly, and he cleared his throat to make it firmer. “You tell us that this tale of the Eternal Bird is a fabrication. That means that you and your people have been wrong and have been wrong for centuries. Almighty Cili punishes the pagans. And a good Titiaka must apply her Law.”

Dashvara nodded. Meanwhile, Paopag had approached him and he helped him to his knees, whispering:

“Almighty Cili…”

That was the beginning of the lesson. Dashvara recited it, this time trying not to swallow the words.

“Almighty Cili, tear from this soul the spider of shadows that debases it. By Serenity, forgive me. By Courtesy, forgive me. By Discretion, forgive me. By Constance, forgive me. By Patience, forgive me. By Sacrifice, forgive me. By Dignity, forgive me. By Fortitude, forgive me. By Sympathy, forgive me. By Humility, forgive me. By Compassion, forgive me. By the Eleven Graces that glorify thee, receive thy… receive thy subject and let the graces… let the disgraces fall upon my soul if I break thy Law.”

He fell silent, suddenly stuck. He had performed very badly, he thought. He’d gotten it wrong at least twice. And something told him he hadn’t finished, that he was missing a sentence, and as he racked his brains to find it, he felt a hand rest on his shelshami, and a deep voice said:

“Almighty Cili is merciful to ignorance and accepts your repentance.”

It was a priest of Cili, who had risen from the table to forgive him. Dashvara felt a slight energy sweep through him, and when he looked up, he thought he saw a glint of understanding and compassion in the priest’s eyes. Relief washed over him as he saw that this priest was not upset even though he had not recited the entire lesson.

“Arise, creature of Cili. Serve your master well and Cili will be pleased.”

Dashvara stood up, and that was all. Paopag led him out of the living room, and when they had moved away, he said to him:

“Mission accomplished, good man. See how simple it was? You’ve calmed all these people down and done everything you had to do. And this is where I leave you,” he declared as they reached a door. “Your people are waiting for you outside.” He patted his shoulder. “Don’t let your condition distress you too much: any man ends up like this after two weeks of torture. In a few days you’ll start to feel better, don’t worry. Good luck, steppeman.”

Dashvara felt totally confused. His people were waiting for him outside, he said? His people? This was so incredible! He grabbed Paopag by the arm as this one was about to head back out into the hallway.

“No,” he growled. “Wait. Paopag, wait. You can’t leave me like this. My people… they’ll think I’ve gone stupid,” he huffed. “And I have. I have sand in my head. Sand that burns. Really.”

Paopag pouted, embarrassed, and jerked his arm free.

“You’ll get over it,” he assured. “I assure you, if I’d wanted to make a dimwit of you, I would have used even more intensive techniques.” He held out a hand and opened the door, adding dryly, “Go.”

Dashvara reluctantly stepped outside. His fear was swept away as soon as he saw that indeed, beyond the sibilian patrol guarding the gate, were Makarva, Lumon, the captain… Ignoring the sibilians altogether, he hurried toward his own. His brothers in turn came forward in a pack, calling his name and hurling words at him in the savage language… The Wise Tongue, a small voice in his mind corrected. The Oy’vat. The language of the Ancient Kings… It was so strange and beautiful to be reunited with brothers you thought you’d lost, to be in a familiar world again, and yet at the same time… at the same time, something inside him failed to get truly excited. He felt like a ghost moving in a world where he did not belong. The energy of the thimbles kept him chained and dead.

The hubbub of voices quickly died down, and expressions became worried. Someone spat a curse as he turned his gaze to the sibilians guarding the house where the Titiakas were staying… Aware that his lack of responsiveness was confusing them all, Dashvara forced himself to give them a slight smile and said:

“Mission accomplished, brothers.”

And he blew out a half-crazed laugh, for even in this state he could not help thinking:

They break you, humiliate you, enslave you, and steal your soul, and you can’t think of anything better to do than repeat Paopag’s words. Mission accomplished. Yes, mission accomplished: you buried your soul before your body, great lord.

His laughter did not seem to calm anyone, on the contrary.

“Come on, son,” the captain said, pulling him along. “Did they hurt you?”

Dashvara frowned and thought for a few moments before coming to the conclusion that the more he opened his mouth, the more they would see that his mind was misguided. He clung to this thought and shook his head in response.

His brothers led him to a large covered stable where all the Xalyas had settled until Kuriag left Aralika and returned to Titiaka. They brought him food, but Dashvara barely touched it. No one asked him about what they had done to him: Tsu must have explained the essentials to them. When he saw Tsu sitting in a corner, a forgotten book in his hand, Dashvara understood that these last days had not been kind to the drow either. He would have liked to go and see him, to talk to him, to tell him something that would erase the suffering of both of them… but he was too exhausted for that. So, after a few moments, he simply lay down on the straw mattress where brotherly hands had led him and fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke with his mind filled with horrible creatures and shrill sounds. Supporting his head with both hands, it took him a moment to realize that many Xalyas were surrounding him and another moment to realize that noises were coming from his throat. The noises seemed unintelligible before he finally heard the words:

“Death… death… Paopag… Please, kill me… Paopag…”

He fell silent as soon as he realized he was delirious, shame overtook him, and he let his hands fall back, though his head still throbbed.

“I’m sorry, brothers,” he snorted, his heart so oppressed it hurt. “You should throw me to hell, to the dogs, to the nadres, or something. I’m sorry.”

Tsu’s dark hand came to rest on his forehead. It felt like ice. Shokr Is Set knelt beside him, saying in a serene voice:

“Do not ask forgiveness for what your enemies have done to you. Ask your brothers for help, and your feather will rise again.”

My feather, Dashvara repeated to himself. There is something you don’t know, Great Sage: there is no such thing as the Eternal Bird. There is no feather, there is no will, there is no hope… There is only suffering.

He suddenly felt a spell flowing inside him, his mind went dark, his body shuddered with pain, and he nervously pushed Tsu aside.

“No,” he panted.

“I’m only trying to help you,” Tsu whispered. “Your body is saturated with energy. I’m only trying—”

“No,” Dashvara cut him off.

“It hurts, I know it does,” the drow whispered softly, “I know it does. But it will help you, trust me.”

Dashvara trusted Tsu, of course. And, not to disappoint his brothers, he accepted his help. Tsu gave instructions to be left alone, and they hung a screen in front of the pallet. It was still daylight, and distant music flowed into the shelter. The whispered voices of the Xalyas could be heard in the stables. Dashvara stopped worrying about his surroundings as Tsu began to balance his energies. He felt that the drow was torturing him, purely and simply, more than “balancing” him. And yet, instead of numbing him, the pain cleared his mind. It was as if Tsu was ripping out the mind-numbing claws that clung to him one by one. The problem was that so many spells required a lot of energy, and the drow eventually showed obvious signs of exhaustion. Seeing it, Dashvara gently pushed him aside with one hand.

“That’s enough, Tsu. Thank you. I feel better now. Really.”

His body was still sorely beaten, but his mind had cleared, and realizing it, filled him with joy, worry, fatigue, shame, hope, despair, and… well, a multitude of conflicting emotions flowed through him, leaving him at a loss. At a loss… but alive.

“A little more and I’ll stop,” Tsu promised.

The drow continued to cast spells until he really couldn’t go on anymore and went to bed, exhausted, with Dashvara’s silent blessing. How many times had he had to use this kind of spells on his patients? He preferred not to think about it.

Some time had passed, and the light in the stables had faded, but it was still daytime. Dashvara pushed aside the canvas and saw that his brothers had not strayed far. Makarva, Zamoy, Lumon, and Miflin were playing katutas in an unusual silence. As soon as he peeked out, his brothers turned to face him. All of them tried to hide their deep concern, but to no avail. With somewhat shaky limbs, but with the firm intention of proving to the Xalyas that their lord had not become a simpleton, Dashvara stood up and went to sit with the katutas players with a sigh. He asked:

“How much time has passed?”

Makarva arched an eyebrow.

“Since you’ve been in Aralika? Two weeks.”

There was a silence. Two weeks at Paopag’s hands. You could tell me a year, I’d believe it as well, Dashvara sighed. He shook his head and leaned against the wall, trying to sort out his thoughts. Makarva was about to move a piece on the checkerboard, when suddenly he let his hand fall back and exhaled sharply.

“Believe me, we knew nothing, Dash. We were chained, and the Ragails were watching us at all hours. They took us to Skâra Hill, west of here, to attend a ceremony, and we did not return to Aralika until last night. It was only there that we heard from Tsu that Arviyag…”

Makarva hesitated, and Zamoy hissed:

“That rat should be buried.”

“Death is little to this vermin,” Kodarah asserted. “His head will roll at your feet one day, Dash. I swear by my Eternal Bird.”

Rarely did one hear the Hairy assert anything with such fervor. Makarva shook his head.

“They only took the chains off us this morning, when they told us they would release you. Kuriag—”

“That damned demon!” Orafe raged. “He said he regretted it! Like hell he regrets it,” he spat disdainfully. “I liked Atasiag a thousand times better. That boy is a danger in the hands of his cousins. If he thinks apologizing is enough—”

Zamoy cut him off with a croak:

“If his wife wasn’t the captain’s daughter, I’d have punched that traitorous dog right in the face! He’d deserve to be tortured like he let you be, Dash. Yes, you bet he deserves it.”

He fell silent in shock under Dashvara’s fixed gaze. The steppe lord slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve something like that.”

He meant it. Kuriag was probably guilty of closing his eyes, but his Eternal Bird had suffered enough on his own when he had opened them.

In your great generosity, lord of the steppe, you even feel compassion for your torturing master, he scoffed. All because his Eternal Bird has ceased to be so pure and innocent. And the more he listens to his cousins, the darker he will become… And he knows it.

He observed the position of the pieces without really paying attention to them. After a silence, he asked:

“And Yira?”

He immediately felt a change in the air and didn’t fail to notice the indefinable pouts of his brothers. Makarva cleared his throat.

“She’s fine,” he assured. “In all honesty, we haven’t been able to see much of her in the last two weeks. The Federates haven’t been mingling with the Essimeans. According to the captain, Todakwa didn’t like the fact that so many Diumcilians have landed at Ergaika.”

“That snake shouldn’t be surprised,” Lumon said calmly. “As they say, kill your neighbors and others will come and take your everything.”

Dashvara frowned and insisted:

“Yira. Where is she?”

No one answered him. Makarva moved a piece, his expression hesitant, and finally said:

“With the Essimeans. They took her up to the Hill of Skâra to bless the place and spend five days and nights there before pronouncing a certain message. We stayed at the bottom of the hill, so we didn’t see anything, but it really looks like… uh… it really looks like they took her as their messenger. And tonight there will be a party again because it’s Bushkia Baw, the Night of Immortality, and… well, Yira will be the queen of the procession, I guess.”

He was about to add something, but he stopped. In turn, Lumon opened and closed his mouth, undecided… Zamoy snorted and said:

“Say, cousin. Why didn’t you tell us she was…? I mean, Yira is… a beautiful person, but this is… Liadirlá,” he croaked, agitated, “you told us she wasn’t taking off her veil because it was a sacred tradition, Dash, and this…” He made a strangled sound. “Oh, hell, forget what I said.”

He looked down and nervously moved a piece on the katuta board. Dashvara tried not to take offense and, speaking in a steady voice, replied:

“My naâsga uses this magic to fight for her life. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Makarva nodded vigorously.

“I believe you, Dash. You have chosen her for your wife, and that is enough for me to consider her a sister. I know her. It’s just that…” he paused to search for his words and concluded, “it was a surprise.”

Other brothers and Xalya women corroborated with quiet gasps. Dashvara felt a slight dizziness, pouted, and said laconically:

“She didn’t say anything, so neither did I.”

Makarva smiled and gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder.

“We don’t blame you, Dash. Nor Yira, let that be clear. All things considered, we Xalyas are… uh… tolerant, aren’t we? By the way, how’s the wound on your shoulder?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows at the sudden change of subject. Tolerant, but they haven’t assimilated it yet, he realized. Well, they would in time. So he moved his arm, gesticulated, and considered:

“I guess it’s healed. Which is good timing because…” he grinned both fiercely and tiredly, “I’m dying to decapitate Arviyag and Todakwa.”

“If I were you, I would wait instead of being rash,” a voice suddenly intervened.

It was the captain. He had just entered the stables and was walking towards them, accompanied by Sashava and Arvara. Attracted by the gathering, several Xalya boys and girls approached, curious. Zorvun gave Dashvara a delighted expression.

“You’re more alert now,” he observed.

“Not quite,” Dashvara admitted, “but Tsu brought me back to life. And I don’t think it’s being rash to go and kill those two devils now after all the time I’ve been waiting.”

“There’s news,” Zorvun replied in an enthusiastic tone. “And quite a few. I spoke personally with Todakwa and…” He glanced around the stables as if to make sure that only Xalyas were there and continued, “First, Yira convinced him to help us if we rebel against the Titiakas. And help us for real: weapons to defend ourselves and clothes, food and livestock to get through the winter. And he is offering us a lasting alliance agreement.”

All the Xalyas present stood and stared at the captain, their mouths agape. Dashvara massaged his forehead in a daze.

“This is absurd. If he invites us to rebel, his agreements with the Titiakas fall apart. Why would he do something so stupid?”

The captain had little control over his emotion as he explained:

“It is the Titiakas who are stupid. Wherever they go, they think they can impose their laws, bribe complacent clan chiefs, and take slaves by the handful, salbronix, horses… Well, Todakwa may be a treacherous snake, but he’s not a Shalussi fond of gold. For the past two weeks, the Titiakas have not stopped mocking Skâra, the Arazmihá, his people, and their traditions… And he can’t stand it. That’s why, among other things, he wants to send them back to the sea.”

Dashvara took in his words with deep perplexity. He could not understand why Todakwa would turn against his allies only because some Titiakas had mocked Skâra… Lumon objected:

“And how does he intend to send them back to the sea? His strength barely equals that of the Titiakas on the steppe. Has he gone mad?”

“Perhaps he thought the Arazmihá would scare them all away!” Zamoy joked. And he gave a curt pout of apology. “Sorry, Dash.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes. Shurta reasoned:

“Either Todakwa has gone mad or he wants us to rebel again so that the Titiakas will sentence us to death.”

Zorvun smiled. Dashvara cleared his throat impatiently.

“What are you hiding from us, Captain?”

The captain widened his smile and said:

“I have other reasons to believe that this time Todakwa is not trying to deceive us: it is said that Arviyag and an uncle of Todakwa’s want to foment a revolt precisely because the Essimean leader is not sufficiently complacent with their affairs.” He rolled his eyes. “The problem is that the arrival of the Arazmihá has delayed their plans, Todakwa has sensed the betrayal and wants to get ahead of them. And, naturally, this Essimean is very much hoping that you will help him throw his enemies into the sea, Dashvara.”

Dashvara suddenly burst out laughing in disbelief.

“Me? And how? By yelling at them, maybe?”

The captain shook his head and grew solemn as he finally said:

“The circle of Honyr sages has decided to support you. Nine-hundred Honyrs are marching on Aralika to demand that their rightful lord, the lord of the Eternal Bird, be returned to them.”

Dashvara stared at him, frozen. The Honyrs… the Honyrs were going to help them? In that moment, he no longer felt tired, dizzy, or lightheaded. Even Paopag’s lessons ceased to affect him as he stood up and fervently uttered in Oy’vat:

“May our Dahars bless the Honyrs!” He breathed in, filling his lungs with air, and stated in a voice vibrant with emotion, “There is hope, Xalyas. Liadirlá exists. The Liadirlá exists,” he repeated. “There is hope…”

Carried away by emotion, he was a little delirious, but his joy was obvious, and the Xalyas did not worry too much when they heard him repeat himself. They celebrated the good news with him, albeit quietly, in case some Ragail or sibilian heard them and went in to see what was going on.

When Youk came and brought Dashvara a bowl full of milk, Dashvara smiled, accepted it, and drank it all down as if he were drinking life itself.

“Thanks, kid. There is nothing better than mare’s milk to cure an Eternal Bird.” And as the boy smiled, he assured as he brought his hand to his chest, “I can feel it coming back to life here inside, brothers. These snakes will not make me believe that they have stolen my soul or that I have denied something I cannot deny as long as I live. As a steppian sage said, there is one thing a man of the Eternal Bird never gives up: to rise again, no matter how many times he is knocked down.” He smiled, because in reality no steppian sage had said that phrase: it was he who had written it, one day, on the wood of the Tower of Compassion… but it didn’t matter who had said it, as long as it was true. “I can feel It flapping its wings again,” he murmured, “and riding through the steppe skies.”

Zamoy elbowed Miflin.

“Poet, you should put rhymes to all this. Our lord is inspired today.”

The Xalyas smiled. Dashvara suddenly frowned.

“By the way. What about Sunrise? I haven’t even had time to…”

“She’s with the other horses,” Alta quieted him, pointing to the back of the stables, and assured him with sincerity, “I’ve been taking care of her like my own horse.”

Dashvara returned a grateful smile. He was feeling more and more alive by the second. Just the thought that the Honyrs were supporting him and coming in such numbers, just the hope that the Xalyas would not return to Titiaka filled him with happiness. In that moment, he did not even allow himself to scoff at his hopes, nor did it matter to him that the Titiakas might choose to fight to stay, because he would fight, this time he would definitely fight. They would push the civilized back to the ocean. And the thimbles would fly away, along with Paopag, Arviyag, and their damned civilization.

The Xalyas were now commenting spiritedly on how best to rebel, and the captain was expressing concern for Kuriag and Lessi, insisting that no harm befall them. Leaning against one of the stone walls of the stables, Shokr Is Set watched them serenely and quietly. Seeing him, Dashvara stepped aside from the others and bowed deeply to the Honyr.

“I am eternally grateful to your people, Great Sage. Whether or not they succeed in getting us out of here alive, their attempt proves that their Eternal Bird is the best in the entire steppe.”

“And worthy of the Xalyas,” Shokr Is Set smiled, inclining his head in turn.

Dashvara looked at him curiously.

“You don’t seem surprised at the decision they made,” he observed.

Smiling, the Great Sage shrugged his shoulders and, with unmistakable affection, simply said:

“I know my people.”