33 The cup of blood

Dashvara tugged on Sunrise’s reins and waited for the Honyrs to join him. Leading the way was Kark Is Tork accompanied by two women. As usual, their faces were veiled, but Dashvara could tell that one of them was very old while the other was young. He confirmed it when the Honyrs stopped their horses in front of the Xalyas and revealed their faces. Dashvara smiled behind his shelshami and uncovered himself in turn before glancing at the Essimean riders who were already riding away: Ashiwa had offered to take the bodies to Aralika, and Dashvara had replied that he would do with them as he pleased. If it had been up to him, he would have left them to rot in the steppe.

“Lord of the Xalyas!” the old Honyr woman pronounced in Oy’vat. “In the name of my family, I, Shire Is Fadul of the Rahiltaw, have come to swear loyalty to you and your descendants. May my word seal the hearts of my children, my grandchildren, and all their descendants. Dahars nalkarat!”

Her voice was firm and wise. For a moment, Dashvara was left speechless. The old woman had just spoken the formula that the steppe lords used to swear loyalty to the Ancient Kings. Demons, it didn’t make sense: he was a steppe lord, not an Ancient King…

“Dash…” Zamoy’s worried voice whispered to him.

Dashvara reacted and reprimanded himself harshly. His head was playing tricks on him again and who knows how long the old woman had been waiting for an answer. With a leap, he dismounted and bowed deeply to the Honyr.

“Ayshat, Shire Is Fadul. I will never forget that the Xalya people were freed from their chains thanks to you. Ayshat and my best wishes to your family.”

The old woman bowed her head, watching him with smiling eyes. Dashvara lost himself in those clear, wise eyes, and his mind began to drift off again… He was startled when he felt Sunrise’s friendly head rest on his shoulder at that moment. He smiled and stroked her. It’s all over now, daâra, he thought. The Honyrs have decided to save us, and the foreigners will not send us back to Titiaka. This had been the simple goal since he had landed back on the mainland: to return to the steppe and unite with the Honyr Clan. Dashvara still had his doubts about where the Xalyas would stand in the new clan, but, if the Honyr Eternal Bird was like that of Sirk Is Rhad, Atsan, and Shokr Is Set, he had high hopes that it would ensure them lasting peace and friendship. Kark Is Tork spoke in a deep voice.

“You beheaded that man,” he said. “Why?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows and, without hesitation, replied calmly:

“He was a slave trader. Last night, he killed one of our people and stole two of our horses. That’s why I beheaded him.”

He did not mention the torture he had endured, and he was sure that his brothers thought of it, but they remained silent. Kark Is Tork then dismounted and bowed, saying:

“Your swords have done justice, my lord. Dahars nalkarat!” he concluded.

That this middle-aged steppeman would give him his loyalty filled him with relief and, at the same time, with great embarrassment… because he wasn’t sure what they expected of him with their solemn oaths. The Honyrs who represented other families swore their loyalty in turn, and Kark Is Tork added:

“Our warriors are behind that hill. Let me guide you to them so that each family can see you,” he offered.

Dashvara smiled, and to conceal his trouble, he bowed again, replying:

“It will be an honor.”

He mounted Sunrise, and they climbed the first hill that separated Essimea from Xalya. Once at the top, he could see the Honyr army camp on the other hillside. The Essimean sentries had not exaggerated its size: when he asked Kark Is Tork how many men were there, the latter told him with obvious pride that there were nine hundred and thirty.

“Some are not Honyrs descended from Sifiara,” he admitted. “Over the past few centuries, tribes from the north and the desert have come to our lands. At first, they did not mix, but now all belong to the same clan. Even those from the Kabada tribe, from the Esarey Mountains, have come. They are also… uh… descendants of the steppe lords. They were deserters,” he explained at Dashvara’s curious look. “Or nomadic survivors who found themselves without a lord. For the first time, the Kabada were invited to the circle of sages. When they heard your story, they were among the first to support you.”

Dashvara did not know what to say. It was so strange to think that so many people he had never seen were so willing to support him only because, by some chance of life, he was the firstborn of Vifkan of Xalya and the blood of the Ancient Kings ran in his veins… He shook his head.

“My story?” he repeated.

Kark Is Tork glanced at him curiously as they rode, and it was Shire Is Fadul who replied with obvious satisfaction:

“The story that tells how the last lord of the steppe was sold into slavery and fought for his people without sending them to their deaths. The story that tells how he twice survived the red snake venom and revived the Eternal Bird of the Ancient Kings across the steppe and beyond.”

The old woman’s words left Dashvara wondering. Indeed, he hadn’t sent the clan to their deaths even though he had wounded their dignity many times along the way, but… reviving the Eternal Bird of the Ancient Kings, really? This was a credit that he did not deserve.

His eyes fell on the group of Honyrs riding out of the camp to meet him. He sighed.

“The last Ancient King died two-hundred years ago.” He sketched a smile and shrugged. “I am not a king. I am willing to put all my energy into improving the lives of anyone who respects the Dahars of the Xalyas. But I come to you as the lord of a devastated clan, not as a king. Let’s leave the kings to history. The heart of the steppe has no need of them.” He tugged on the reins and stroked Sunrise’s neck, adding, “The best king is the Liadirlá we have within us. And the best advisor, our horse.”

He fell silent, and there was a hush. He cursed himself inwardly.

As soon as your head gets a little better, you immediately start philosophizing again, lord of the steppe. They swear loyalty to you, and you tell them it is useless… They have just saved your people from slavery, Dash: you owe them what they ask, and, if they ask you to be their king, you will be.

He was about to try to correct his words when the old Honyr woman said:

“Dawana hassen-shi yetar.”

There are no kings among the wise, she said… Dashvara met her dark, smiling eyes, and perceiving approval and respect in them, he bowed his head slightly in reply.

However, a burst of wisdom does not make one wise, Dashvara thought. And he was sure that this old woman knew that and would not tire of evaluating his every sentence and every action.

When they reached the various members of the Honyr families, they welcomed Dashvara with multiple Dahars nalkarat! followed by the usual introductions. And once again, Dashvara was exasperated with his numb mind because he was completely unable to remember all the names he heard. Tinan was with them, as were the young Xalya women, and as soon as little Shivara appeared in their midst, Morzif called to him with an exclamation of joy and lifted him in his arms. Near them Sirk Is Rhad smiled broadly, and his scarred face lost its natural grim look. However, when Dwin was told that her grandfather had died, there was a respectful silence, and when Miflin comforted her and walked away with her, Zamoy commented to lighten the mood:

“Sashava will have poet descendants.”

They smiled, and there were mocking comments wondering if, besides being poets, they would be bald as well. Dashvara shook his head, smiling. It couldn’t be said that Sashava had a bad life anyway. Sure, he could have lived for several more decades, but… well, he had died on the steppe and with his people. As the steppe sages said, ‘Death is the best blessing of life, because it gives it value: it is like the wind that blows on the steppe, it is like the water that flows in the rivers, like the cloud that grows, like the child that is born: death is.’

Taking advantage of the fact that the good mood was returning among the Xalyas, several Honyrs invited him to share their meal, and Dashvara gladly accepted, as he was starving. Thus, he found that the Honyr people and their allies were enjoying more prosperity than he could have imagined. Sirk Is Rhad and Shokr Is Set had told them much about the traditions of their people and their past, but they had never commented on the present life. And, as Dashvara understood it that afternoon in talking with so many of the Honyr and Kabada chiefs, they very rarely went hungry in the way that the Xalyas had chronically over the last two decades: every family household had herds of horses and cattle, and they managed to feed them all well in the summer and autumn, driving them to the pastures of the Esarey Mountains, from west to east, and then east to west. With the first snows, they migrated to the tribes of Lake Faorok, on the border with the Red Desert, and traded there with many clans, including merchants from the Iskamangra Empire. It was from the Iskamangra Empire that they obtained the black steel to forge their swords, which were light and resilient as air. They were proud of their weapons, but when they saw that Dashvara was also carrying black swords and he explained that they had belonged to Siranaga, they all marvelled. After a long, noisy and animated examination, a Honyr woman said:

“I’d like to see how the steppe lord handles them. They say the Xalyas call you the Prince of the Sand like Siranaga. Is that true?”

Sitting on a comfortable colored rug, Dashvara looked at her and realized that she was the same young woman who had accompanied Kark Is Tork and Shire Is Fadul earlier. If he remembered correctly, her name was Ladli Is Fadul and she was the sister of Atsan Is Fadul and the granddaughter of Shire. He smiled.

“That’s what they call me,” he asserted.

“Ladli says Siranaga could fight ten warriors at once!” Shivara interjected, sitting down beside his lord with his top.

Dashvara smiled.

“Of course. And they say his horse had legs so wide that they could crush his enemies,” he said, taking on a storytelling tone.

Shivara’s eyes widened.

“How wide?”

With a rough expression, Dashvara pretended to embrace a huge trunk and those listening laughed.

“That’s not true,” the child protested.

Dashvara shrugged, amused.

“It’s history.”

He ruffled his hair and stood up heavily under the questioning gaze of the Honyrs. He explained:

“We Xalyas have a habit of taking a nap after eating. If you don’t mind…”

They immediately pointed out the best yurt for him to rest in, that of Shire Is Fadul and his granddaughter, Ladli. He did not even think of protesting that he should be given another more modest one: he was too exhausted, and he knew that, if he continued to wait, he would end up revealing not only his exhaustion but also his torpor. He had probably already revealed it enough. As soon as he lay down on the pallet, all the barriers he had erected against fatigue collapsed. His last thought before sinking heavily into sleep was for the Eternal Bird of Sashava, for the health of the young Okuvara, and… for his naâsga.

His dreams, however, were a succession of nightmares. He dreamed that the dungeon of Xalya was falling, he dreamed that the steppe was changing into a huge sinking ship, he dreamed that his naâsga was turning entirely into an undead and was saying to him gently and apologetically: I am the Messenger of Skâra… Skâra, repeated the echo. And then the echo grew louder and the Xalya children began to shout: Skâra, Skâra…! In the meantime, Paopag’s face appeared and said to him with his father’s voice: the Eternal Bird does not exist, my son, you have betrayed Siranaga, you and your ancestors, you have killed the Eternal Bird… The voice had gradually changed, replaced by that of Sheroda, and it hissed at him: you have killed, Dashvara of Xalya, you are guilty…! The Eternal Bird does not exist… And as the voices mingled and repeated themselves while the children continued to scream, Dashvara felt an immense anguish grow and grow… Until a small exasperated voice appeared and told him: you are dreaming, Dash. This is just a nightmare. Wake up, wake up, wake up… SKÂRA!

He woke up drenched in sweat and shaking like a leaf. He sat up to calm himself, rubbed his face and cursed his dreams. At first, he was convinced that everything—the fight against the sibilians, the death of Sashava, and the death of the Titiakas—had all been a dream too and that he was still, as always, in the room with Paopag. As always. He spoke his name in a stammer and… then he saw the inside of the yurt. A dim light shone through, and blinking, he saw Shire Is Fadul sitting in the centre of the tent before the embers of the fire; lifting the teapot, she was pouring hot water into a cup. He met the old woman’s gaze, and she smiled as she approached.

“The saoran will ward off evil spirits,” she assured.

Dashvara arched his eyebrows and accepted the cup with a nod, trying to brush aside his confusion. His hand was still shaking. He blushed and breathed in, calming himself down suddenly.

“Thank you,” he said. He could not avoid a slightly strained tone. He glanced around, at the cozy fireplace, the rich decor, the rugs, the fire… and flinched, waking abruptly to reality. “Liadirlá, is it night already?”

Shire uncovered her only tooth, and her wrinkled face wrinkled even more.

“You slept through the night, young man. The sky is already beginning to turn blue.”

Dashvara’s confusion grew. He looked down at the cup of saoran so as not to look at the old woman. It was the quintessential steppian drink and consisted simply of saoran leaves mixed with boiled water and mare’s milk.

He took a sip and, after a silence, asked:

“My brothers…?”

“They went back to Kark Is Set yesterday,” Shire informed. “Only one stayed behind, a young man named Makarva. He’s outside.”

And you, meanwhile, are sleeping soundly and raving about stupid nightmares… Dashvara sighed and took another sip of saoran. The old woman handed him a plate full of dried berries.

“Areberries of Esarey,” she explained. “The last of the year. Taste them. They’re delicious.”

Dashvara bowed his head and, under Shire’s watchful eye, tasted the berries. They were, indeed, delicious, but he dared not eat more than three and returned to his cup, his thoughts confused. The silence continued. He was vaguely aware that he should probably have asked questions, thanked her… in short, done something to do with the present. And yet he said nothing. His silence, coupled with the nightmare he kept rehashing, was making him more and more nervous. Finally, Shire said softly:

“I sense that your heart is troubled, young Xalya.”

The old woman sat on the other side of the yurt and went back to her spindle and distaff, spinning with expert hands. Dashvara made an embarrassed pout without knowing what to say, and, glancing kindly at him, Shire added:

“It is not easy to understand your own Eternal Bird.”

Dashvara breathed in and nodded, suddenly more at ease.

“The more I think I understand it, the more it changes and the more it escapes me,” he confessed.

Shire said nothing, but she nodded in turn, as if inviting him to speak. He did not know her, and yet Dashvara suddenly felt a wave of respect for this Honyr. Something about her reminded him of Namamrah, an ancient and renowned steppewoman sage who, it was said, unlike other sages, did not understand the language of water, or grass, or wind: she understood the language of the heart.

Know thyself, Namamrah said, and thy feather shall remain serene in the face of the fiercest wind…

Dashvara felt his heart clench painfully. Right now, although in theory he had achieved what he wanted, freedom for his people, victory, peace… he still felt more chained than ever. After another long silence, he put the cup down and said:

“That man…” He choked, and his face hardened as he resumed, “That man I killed yesterday was a murderer. My reason told me: kill him. My brothers’ hearts were crying out to me: kill him. And my Eternal Bird… also felt this desire. To eliminate this devil and make him disappear from the face of the earth.”

A sad rage came over him. He shook his head and looked down at his hands. In his confusion, he could almost see them covered in blood.

“I am as murderous as Arviyag,” he announced in a strangely calm voice, “I have killed men thinking that, by doing so, I was saving the lives of my brothers, of my people. But, in reality, if I killed Nanda, it was for revenge. If I killed Rayeshag Korfu, it was out of rage and contempt. If I killed Arviyag while he was helpless… it was out of fear and disgust. And hatred.”

He frowned and turned bright eyes to the embers that still gave off heat.

“My Eternal Bird has been weak,” he asserted. “A steppian sage, Moarvara, used to say that a person’s Eternal Bird was born bound to a cup of blood and that the way of the wise was that of centering oneself on the foot of the cup so that it would always be balanced and would never shed a single drop of blood. It is not the cups of my brothers that count, he said, nor are the cups of my enemies. The only cup that counts here is mine. The only one that is linked to my Eternal Bird. And with my will alone I can keep it full, if I keep vengeance, pride, cowardice, lust, ambition, and cruelty away from me. And if other cups try to break mine, they will not succeed, for my cup is made of black steel and the claws of my Eternal Bird clasp it in such a way that my body will spill all its blood rather than let a single drop of the treasure it clasps fall.”

Dashvara swallowed and concluded:

“My cup bleeds all over.”

He fell silent, stiffened, and muttered inwardly, Why in the world are you telling the old woman this, Dash? Maybe you think she’s interested in your philosophical ramblings because she’s sworn loyalty to you? Do you think it matters to her if your cup bleeds all over? He suppressed a burst of sarcastic laughter. The only thing you’ve shown well is that you’re absolutely nothing like a king. But, what the hell, as long as the Honyrs have some compassion and are willing to accept your people, who cares about the rest? He sighed, The best you can do is thank the old woman for breakfast, call Sunrise, and leave to join your brothers and your naâsga…

He finished the little that was left in his cup and said:

“Forgive my ramblings, ayulâa. My tongue is wagging more than it should and uttering nonsensical words. A thousand thanks to you and your granddaughter for having me in your yurt…”

He fell silent, for, as he straightened up, the old woman had raised a hand to stop him. He sat down again, respectful, though reluctantly. The old woman’s face no longer smiled, but it still reflected an unshakeable serenity.

“There is truth in your words, young man,” she assured. “Moarvara was not the only one who thought so. There was a time when our ancestors respected life above all else, they condemned the hunt, the clan leaders respected their people, and their people followed them not out of lust or fear, not for glory, but because respect and love united them.” A slight, nondescript pout stretched her lips. “But a mountain, no matter how solid, if it is gradually eaten away from within, will eventually crumble, and all that was left on the steppe was a home of ruins. Ruins crushed, desolate and paralyzed by a glorious empire forged on blood and power. As you know, young Xalya, over it reigned those who called themselves Ancient Kings. They dominated the entire steppe, from the end of Ges to Aïgstia, from the mountains of Padria to the Highlands. They were the ones who commanded, and their hordes of horsemen crossed the steppe, the desert, and the mountains like incendiary gusts. The Eternal Bird became a lie. Respect and love became only incomplete, selfish feelings, chained to one group and blind to the rest. Lust and ambition were the only motivations of these lords of the steppe: their hearts were made of stone, their swords were covered with the blood of their brothers. And those whom we call zoks—the Essimeans, the Shalussis, the Akinoas—responded with hatred to their own suffering; they countered death with death and the symbol of the Eternal Bird with other symbols. They allied themselves with the lords of the steppe against other lords. The zoks saw them kill each other without almost fighting and, therefore, they won.”

The old woman spoke peacefully, expressing no sadness for the history of the steppe. History, like death, is, Dashvara thought, understanding her. The past cannot be changed, but we can learn from it. He repeated the phrase to himself three times before he realized its deeper meaning: he had killed, but inwardly he had recognized his mistake, and all he needed was to be reborn, to put his feather back together… but this time so that it would never fall again. All he needed was willpower. Your will is like the air, a steppian sage said once: A sword may cut through the air, but it cannot break it. Your will is not a gust that strengthens and weakens: it is still air, it is like water that, without form, follows its course downward and becomes a burden to anyone who tries to give it form.

Dashvara remembered as if it were yesterday the upright figure of Maloven walking around the library room of the Xalya Dungeon while reciting the wise words of the ancients to his young students.

‘Every step,’ he used to say. ‘Every smile, every blink of the eye, will become a reflection of your Eternal Bird, and you must think of It through your actions to know It. The Eternal Bird guides you and you guide It because you are one with It: when you understand this, there will be no repentance, for there will be no contradiction in you. Peace and happiness will fill your soul and nothing can ever completely extirpate them.’

Dashvara shook his head with some amusement. I spent all these years thinking Maloven was an idealistic visionary and now I’m starting to admire his pacifist ideals. Rather convenient to do so now that I have an army of nine-hundred warriors ready to follow my orders.

He sighed and finally asked, confused:

“Why do you swear loyalty to me if you believe there should be no kings, ayulâa?”

The old woman smiled, and without ceasing to twist the wool on her spindle, she replied:

“We Honyrs have been a contradictory people since the birth of our clan. Sifiara never got over his betrayal, and after years of complete isolation, he returned to Kark Is Set every year to beg forgiveness from his brother and his descendants until his death. They never forgave him. His obsession with raising his feather was such that he imposed among his people very strict customs, so strict that he generated a real fanaticism. When one feels that one is losing one’s identity, one clings to it with greater strength.” She sighed softly. “Sifiara educated his children to ensure that his ordinances were passed down. Instead of nurturing us in a spirit of vengeance, he instilled in us a sense of guilt, convinced us that we were a cursed and irredeemably doomed people until the day a descendant of the Ancient Kings would forgive our faults.”

She shook her head.

“Then the wars came, and we watched from afar the lords of the steppe without understanding how sons of the Eternal Bird could act in such an absurd manner. Until one day we understood that the Eternal Bird they professed was no longer the same, that it had become darker and… that their cups of blood were falling without any restraint. From then on, we began to despise them,” she admitted with steady calm. “You were to us the devils who donned blue feathers in appearance and trod in practice a lake of blood, depravity, and oblivion.”

Dashvara nodded, saddened.

“And it’s true.”

The old woman stopped spinning for a moment and looked up thoughtfully, not at Dashvara but at the door, before continuing her task. Without disputing Dashvara’s statement, she said:

“There is a saying among our people that goes like this, ‘dying is an art, we all die, but we don’t all know how to die’.” She tilted her head to one side and observed, “In the same way, we all live, but we don’t all know how to live. Living is an art that is learned and forgotten. According to my people, children are the wise ones in life, teenagers forget what they knew instinctively, and adults… sometimes relearn.”

A thin smile lit up her aged face, as if this conversation brought back pleasant memories. She concluded:

“Despite their initial doubts, my people are now convinced of your good faith, Dashvara of Xalya. They yearn to find the forgiveness that Sifiara has so longed for, and they want to prove to you that, after so many generations, they are still loyal to the Eternal Bird of the Ancient Kings. The problem is… not everyone knows the difference between the Ancient Kings who lived in a friendly steppe and those who tried to dominate it by force. Some believe that you will take back your right and conquer the lands now occupied by the Essimeans and Shalussis… the zoks. But I know you will not,” she pronounced. “And I know you will ease the rules Sifiara has imposed on us. That is why I have sworn loyalty to you, lord of the steppe.”

Her keen eyes fixed on Dashvara’s, defiantly, as if to say: your Eternal Bird had better not deceive my hopes, because my people need it.

Dashvara struggled to suppress an incredulous pout.

“Do some people really think I’m going to fight with the Essimeans and Shalussis? That would be ridiculous.”

The old woman shrugged. She had stopped spinning.

“The Heart of the Steppe has always been the capital of the Ancient Kings.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“The best capital in a steppe is one that moves and has no fixed location. The Essimeans and Shalussis have as much right to live in Rocdinfer as we do, and I’m not going to pull out the swords to take back a pile of stone. And I would say more: as long as the foreigners do not betray us, let them take the gold and the salbronix. We don’t need them. We Xalyas are only looking for a place to live. You Honyrs have offered it to us, and therefore, I swear by my Eternal Bird, Shire Is Fadul, that I will do whatever you tell me to ease the Honyr conscience. I wish only the greatest good for your people,” he assured.

“Which is yours,” the old woman smiled. “The Honyrs will always be Honyrs, but they desire no less that you consider them your people.”

Dashvara flushed slightly and agreed:

“Of course. Anyone who respects the Dahars of the Xalyas is my brother, ayulâa. I will always be a Xalya. But it will also be an honor for me to be recognized as a Honyr.”

As he spoke these words, he realized that this would be the best way to make the Honyrs understand that there was no longer any dishonor for their people since the lord of the steppe himself was willing to be adopted by them. The old woman’s eyes smiled.

“Ayshat, my son. May your Liadirlá fly in peace.”

The old woman took up her spinning wheel. She had said all she wanted to say to him. Dashvara stood up and bowed.

“Thank you for your hospitality, ayulâa.”

He was about to leave the yurt when the Honyr said in a soft voice:

“The smaller the bird, the lighter its flight.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows in confusion. Shire was smiling, without looking at him, as she continued to spin. For a moment, he imagined that this old woman was Namamrah herself, then that she was her reincarnation and then… he scoffed:

Is it necessary to wear the name of an ancient sage to be a sage as well? Nonsense. And now stop reasoning and get moving.

When he came out of the yurt, the first rays of the sun were already shining in the east. Like those of the other chiefs of the clan, the tent was set up on a large cart. And on the steps of the cart, Dashvara saw with surprise that many draperies, plates, carpets, pretty vases, and other objects of unquestionable value were piled up. He stood looking at this display of wealth in perplexity and was descending the steps, taking care not to bump into anything, when a loud laugh made him turn. Makarva was approaching accompanied by Sirk Is Rhad and Atsan Is Fadul.

“Good morning, sîzan!” his friend said, cheerfully. “I hope you like presents because you have quite a few.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened, and he turned back to the pile of riches. Was this all… for him?

“Liadirlá,” he articulated, dumbfounded.

Makarva and the two Honyrs laughed, and the former added:

“And that’s not counting the five hundred horses they promised us.”

Five hundred…, Dashvara repeated to himself, stunned. Still unable to believe his eyes, he reached out a hand to a rolled up tapestry of purple, white and gold. On it was a wooden figure. He took it with a strange feeling in his body. It represented a magnificent horse with its rider. Perched on the rider’s arm was a bird ready to fly. The image of his lord father came to mind when he taught him to hunt and sent his eagle soaring through the sky in search of prey…

“This one was given to me by an old man who says he knows you,” Atsan Is Fadul interjected, “Apparently he was found half dead two years ago at the foot of the mountains. He is a zok, but all consider him a great sage,” he assured. “His name is Bashak.”

Dashvara suddenly looked up. By the Eternal Bird… The old Shalussi was alive. He smiled and took another look at the gifts. He let out, touched:

“The generosity of the Honyrs is overwhelming.”

Sirk Is Rhad and Atsan Is Fadul smiled, pleased. Dashvara paused and felt slightly guilty as he said:

“I suppose that, if they’re gifts, I can do whatever I want with them.”

They looked at him curiously.

“Naturally,” Sirk Is Rhad confirmed.

Dashvara nodded, and since there were other Honyrs not far away, he lowered his voice and asked:

“You think they’ll take offense if I pay a debt with all this?”

“A debt?” Makarva repeated, bewildered.

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“The forty horses, Mak. And the weapons and armor. And the huge favor Kuriag Dikaksunora did us by taking us to the steppe. That debt.”

Makarva grimaced, obviously upset that so much wealth was going to end up in the hands of a foreigner. He objected:

“But the Titiaka is rotten with riches, Dash.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“We must somehow repair the harm we have done to him. This is important,” he assured. “Kuriag must leave the steppe with his head held high. He’s the only one who can stop the Federates from throwing themselves at us.”

Zamoy, Orafe, or some other more impetuous brother would have huffed and puffed, saying that, if the Federates came, they would throw them back to the sea with their swords. But Makarva was a much more reasonable man. Probably more than I am, Dashvara thought. So the young Xalya eventually nodded, convinced by the argument, and said, pointing to a book:

“You can give him the rest, but not that. These are the thoughts of Sifiara himself. This is for you. And this…” he sighed, gesturing vaguely to a pretty checkerboard of katutas. He reluctantly articulated, “I suppose the Titiaka will know how to use it.”

Dashvara smiled, took the checkerboard with its finely crafted pieces and handed it to Makarva.

“On second thought, my friend, I’m sure you’ll make better use of it than Kuriag.”

Makarva looked stunned.

“Oh. Really? But… it’s yours, Dash. And it’s much nicer than the one we have.”

Dashvara laughed.

“Precisely. That way, when you’re united with Shkarah and have your own yurt, you can invite me to play katutas.”

Makarva blushed like a garfia. Smiling with all his teeth, Dashvara put the checkerboard in his hands and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Let’s get going to Aralika, sîzan.”