35. The Eternal Bird

The federates seemed to have brought the good weather with them. Sitting on the platform in the sun, Dashvara was carving a piece of wood, listening distractedly to Tsu’s flute and ignoring the buzzing of flies. He didn’t know yet what shape to give his new creature, he hadn’t thought about it, but as Maltagwa often said: ‘Every plant needs time to grow’. With ideas, it was the same thing. That didn’t stop him from blowing up splinters with his dagger.

He had been there for three hours, idle. In fact, they had been in the barracks for four days doing nothing. They were surrounded by tents and Federal soldiers who came and went regularly. Captain Faag had even sent patrols into the swamps, and a team of experts had spent a whole day working to remove the rope of smoke deposited by the drows.

“Six and six!” Makarva shouted with a big triumphant laugh.

The young Xalya was sitting a little further away, playing katutas with Zamoy, Boron, and Lumon. Miflin was a spectator, but his eyes had wandered to the white clouds gliding across the sky. Many of the other Xalyas were sitting on the platform, enjoying the sun. No one liked to see the comings and goings of so many federates, but they all preferred it to being cooped up for a week in a dark barrack.

The patients were getting better. They were still weak, but they were already beginning to eat something other than mashed carrots and chew something other than dorcho leaves. However, when Zorvun had asked for some of Grumble’s milk, Tsu had flatly forbidden it; he said it was not suitable for them. His refusal made Zorvun grumble for a long time: everyone knew that the captain loved milk.

Dashvara smiled. His eyes followed the ponderous gait of a squadron of soldiers as they passed, sinking into the mud. He heard them grunt something in the Diumcili dialect and thought he understood that they were missing the lands of Shjak.

The federates were surprisingly respectful: they did not take away the barracks, the donkey, or the horse. And they gave them no work to do.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Tahisran?” he murmured, looking down at his sculpture again.

The shadow was hidden in the bag next to him. It spent its nights snooping around the camp and its days hidden in that bag. The Xalyas had begun to get used to it.

‘What is wonderful, Dash?’ Tahisran asked. The shadow had only been with the Xalyas for a few days, and it was already able to understand Oy’vat. Who knows how many languages he had learned in his wanderings.

Dashvara tackled a knot in the wood, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t know, Tah, I don’t know why I said that.”

There was a small mental laugh.

‘Well. So, now you call me Tah?’

Dashvara smiled.

“You call me Dash. Besides, I’m used to shortening names. But if you want, I’ll give you a nickname.”

There was a thoughtful silence and then a refusal.

‘No, thank you. I like Tahisran as a name.’

“It sounds majestic,” Dashvara agreed.

‘It sounds the way it does,’ the shadow replied. ‘In Caeldric, the ancient language of the eastern lands, it means Rain of Light. If you called me Tah, you would only call me Light.’

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“It suits you perfectly, Tah. After all, there is no shadow without light.”

Zamoy let out a roar as his dice gave him two ones.

“Cheaters!” he lamented.

“Are you talking to the dice, Baldy?” Makarva inquired curiously.

“Dash talks with a shadow, that’s not any better,” Zamoy replied.

“Right,” Makarva conceded, and turning to Dashvara, asked, “By the way, has Tahisran learned anything about this mysterious woman you are so passionate about, Dash?”

Dashvara pouted. He had wanted to ask the shadow, but not in front of everyone. He was still wondering about what had happened in Faag’s pavilion and about that strange, magical glow that had enveloped Saazi for a brief moment before disappearing. Sashava had commented something about hallucinogenic effects caused by fatigue and nerves, which was not surprising considering that Grumpy despised magic more than any other Xalya. Dashvara, however, knew what he had seen: Saazi had tried to cast a spell, and something—probably those chains she wore—had stopped her. In any case, the strangest thing was that Captain Faag would consent to have a prisoner in his tent who spoke so boldly against the system he and his men were defending.

“Nonsense,” he said aloud after further meditation. And although Makarva had refocused on the game, he questioned, “Tahisran?”

‘I don’t know…’ the shadow said, hesitantly. ‘I heard voices. And I heard a conversation about drows. That woman sounds like a slave, Dash. And I think she has something to do with the drows. Let’s say she could be a drow,’ he explained.

Nothing that Dashvara hadn’t already assumed. He glanced at Tsu, sitting with his flute. On the first day, some federates had “mistaken” the drow for an enemy and threatened to kill him. Luckily, they stopped in time when a dozen Xalyas got in their way. No one had attacked Tsu again, but Dashvara was not reassured by the suspicious looks the federates were giving as they passed.

Bah, he thought. They are suspicious of us all, not just Tsu. After all, we are Doomed, and among the Doomed, there are often criminals. But aren’t these soldiers criminals too? Aren’t we all? I killed swamp orcs to keep them from killing cattle, and I killed them to keep the federates from killing me. It’s an absurd circle I’d be happy to get out of if I could.

The words of the drow in Faag’s pavilion came to mind: ‘You are a slave, but you can stop being one’. Was there a more obvious statement? Dashvara stabbed the dagger into the wood. Yes, I could kill myself right here and stop being a slave to anyone. I would even stop being a slave to myself. But the solution leaves much to be desired.

He felt compassion for this drow. She seemed to be so lonely…

He suddenly frowned. And what about those Naskrahs, those drows? Maybe they were there for a reason. Maybe their intention wasn’t to conquer Atria Canton but to get one of their own back. That would explain why they had appeared shortly before the arrival of the Compassive Company.

Dashvara shook his head.

There you go again, making things up. Besides, what do you care about what’s really going on? That drow is not the only slave in Diumcili, and in two days, you will be gone. You’re not going to waste the first serious opportunity to escape in a year by doing absurd things, are you?

The idea of going to spy on Faag’s pavilion himself had taken shape in his mind… He rejected it abruptly. He’d better save his curiosity for more relevant occasions.

“Oh,” Boron said suddenly.

His tone of voice drew Dashvara’s attention, and they all followed the Placid’s gaze. Between the tents, a white horse was moving forward, guided by a blond man who walked in front. Dashvara had just caught sight of him when Zamoy let out a small laugh:

“It’s Chubby!” he said under his breath.

Lumon immediately turned to Miflin.

“Has it been fifteen days already?” he asked.

It was the Poet who took care of counting the days. Miflin ran a hand over his bald head and nodded.

“Fifteen days exactly.”

Makarva and Dashvara exchanged a mischievous smile.

“What word do we ask him to look up this time?” the former asked.

They had gone over the strangest words they knew, but they still hadn’t agreed.

“I think ilawatelk would not be bad,” Dashvara insisted.

While Makarva bit his lip, not quite convinced, Tsu stopped playing the flute.

“Ilawatelk?” he inquired, curious. “What’s that?”

“A steppe animal,” Dashvara explained. “It’s a kind of gazelle, but smaller. The bigger ones are barely two feet long. Come on, Mak, here it comes. If you can’t think of a better word than ilawatelk…”

“Well, he won’t even bother to look it up in his dictionary,” Makarva objected.

Dashvara waited patiently for him to suggest a better word, and finally, Makarva grumbled.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Go for ilawatelk,” he yielded as the captain rose to greet the inspector.

Chubby had changed a lot. He had lost weight, his appearance was less neat, and his eyes were darkened by deep dark circles. Dashvara bit his lip in sympathy. His first tour of the Border didn’t seem to have gone very well.

Demons, Dash, have you always been this compassionate or is the tower rubbing off on you?

“Good morning, Inspector,” the captain said in an affable tone.

“Hello,” the inspector said, stopping.

Concentrating again on his piece of wood, Dashvara listened half-heartedly to the conversation that both of them engaged in, but then the words of the Chubby suddenly caught his attention:

“I have also come to say goodbye to you, since from tomorrow I will cease to be a border inspector. Another inspector has been appointed, of course, but in any case, you will not see him if it is true that you are sent to Titiaka.”

Everyone jerked up.

“To Titiaka?” the captain repeated. “How do you know we are going to Titiaka, Inspector?”

Chubby opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Well,” he hesitated and lowered his voice like a schemer, “at least that’s what I’ve been told. It seems that you have attracted the attention of a powerful merchant in the capital. A certain Atasiag Peykat. As I understand it, the Council owed him a favor, and they offered him a personal guard. I’m sure some people think Atasiag’s choice is risky, but I think he got a good deal. All in all, you have a very good reputation among the Doomed.”

He paused, perhaps realizing that he was violating the inspectors’ professional silence. Atasiag, Dashvara thought, surprised. Wasn’t this the same man who had saved Tahisran from the pirate ship?

“I see,” Captain Zorvun said. “Thank you for the information. Well, do you want to inspect the place in more detail or did you just come to say goodbye?” he asked.

In the last few days, they had taken advantage of their free time to do a thorough cleaning of the shack. The inspector would be impressed, Dashvara smiled. However, the Chubby nodded.

“No. I trust you to keep this place in good shape until the other platoon arrives. I don’t want to linger.”

The captain nodded.

“And I don’t want to seem like I’m interfering, but… did your resignation have anything to do with the welcome they gave you in the other towers?” he asked affably.

Chubby stiffened a little.

“Certainly, I think this job is not for me,” he simply replied. “I wish you a safe journey to Titiaka, soldiers.”

“And I wish you the best of luck in finding your true calling, federate,” the captain said frankly.

Dashvara smiled, and seeing that the Chubby was pulling the horse’s bridle away between the tents, he turned to the bag.

“Tah, can you give me the sculpture inside?” He saw the bag jiggle and open a little to reveal Bashak’s sculpture. Dashvara sighed. “No, not that one, the one I finished a few days ago.”

‘Oh,’ the shadow said, searching. ‘This one?’

Dashvara smiled when he saw a wooden figure in the shape of an eagle appear.

“Thank you, Tah.”

With the sculpture in one hand, he ran towards the Chubby under the astonished eyes of the Xalyas and the federates. He had almost reached him when he called out:

“Hey, Inspector!”

Chubby turned around and stopped, surprised.

“Yes?”

Dashvara gave him a friendly smile.

“I think you’re forgetting something. Remember that figurine I was carving last time?”

Chubby arched an eyebrow.

“I do remember it. Have you finished it already?”

Dashvara nodded firmly and handed him the eagle.

“When I started it, I didn’t know what shape to give it, but when you appeared you gave me an idea. And I carved this for you, Inspector.”

The federate looked genuinely amazed and took the gift in his free hand. He examined it before looking up.

“Is that an eagle?”

Dashvara shrugged, smiling.

“What do you think?”

“It looks like it. It’s very well done.” He glanced at the sculpture, became confused, and cleared his throat. “Do you really want to give it to me?”

He looked incredulous. Dashvara raised his eyebrows briefly.

“Does it seem so strange to you that someone would offer you something, Inspector?”

Chubby looked him in the eye for a few seconds, and a light smile stretched his lips.

“Thanks, Dash.”

Dashvara repressed a gasp. So the Chubby remembered his name…

“You’re welcome,” he replied casually. “By the way, what you have in your hand is much more than an eagle, Inspector. It is the mirror of your Eternal Bird. When you look at the sculpture, only you will be able to see the reflection, and I hope that it will guide your steps as did for me the sculpture that a wise old man once gave me.”

Chubby was obviously moved. A good man, Dashvara decided.

“Thank you,” the federate repeated. “I heard about this Eternal Bird once when I was studying at the Dazbon Citadel and… I think I know what you mean.” He paused for a moment and suddenly put the sculpture in his pocket and pulled the famous dictionary from his bag. “I know it’s not the same to give something that was made with your own hands as it is to give something that was bought, but… I would like you to keep it. My grandmother used to say that it’s always good to have a dictionary on hand. She was a translator.”

Dashvara smiled with all his teeth and took the dictionary almost reverently.

“If you insist, I’ll keep it. Thank you, Inspector.”

They exchanged a look of mutual recognition, and the Chubby bowed his head.

“Good luck, soldier.”

“Good luck!” Dashvara wished him.

He watched the federate as he pulled the horse’s bridle again. When he lost sight of him, he turned his attention to the cover of the book. It was made of old, worn leather, but the pages, made of lamitril paper, were in good condition. This dictionary must have been worth several dragons, Dashvara thought. Hopefully, no one would steal it.

Well, today I gave a piece of wood to a federate and told him about the Eternal Bird. He smiled mockingly. I always knew that one day the lord of the steppe would perform some feat worth telling.

When he returned to the barracks, Makarva immediately looked up from the checkerboard of katutas.

“You’re a romantic, Dash,” he taunted. “Did you ask him about the ilawatelk?”

Dashvara brandished the dictionary with a broad smile.

“No, but I have something better. And, now that I think about it, I have another word to look up.” He cleared his throat, opened the dictionary at random, and read: “Mischief: a ploy invented by Makarva of Xalya to fool his opponents, especially his brothers. Synonym: makarvary. Antonym…”

Makarva rushed at him with a loud laugh and took the dictionary from his hands.

“Don’t be a makarver!” he warned him. “So Chubby gave you this?”

“Antonym?” Zamoy inquired, with intense curiosity. “What can be the antonym of a makarvary?”

As he sat back down on the platform next to Tahisran, Dashvara thought about it.

“A boronery, perhaps? Boron, you never play any tricks on us, do you?”

The innocent eyes of Boron the Placid shone, mocking.

“I’m not so sure, Dash,” he admitted.

“What?” Makarva exclaimed indignantly, “Have you been deceiving us all this time?”

The katuta players protested, feigning deep disappointment. Miflin interrupted them by reciting:

Placidly the Placid confesses

Without mischief, the game is of little interest.

Makarva, Dashvara, and Zamoy cleared their throats and exchanged meaningful looks. The first one flipped through the dictionary painstakingly.

“Let’s see… Poet’s trouble,” he searched, passing the pages. “No, it’s not there. At poetic dementia, perhaps?”

“Look for miflinism,” Zamoy advised him.

At the irrepressible smiles of his companions, Miflin sighed as he commented:

By looking up imaginary words in dictionaries,

you can only, my brothers, do makarvaries.

They burst out laughing, including the Poet. As he picked up his piece of wood and his dagger, Dashvara saw Captain Zorvun’s mocking expression. He shook his head, laughing inwardly.

If the captain behaves like a five-year-old… what about us? But, as a wise man once said, a man must reject the bad from childhood and keep the good. He who rejects everything is dull and he who keeps everything… well, he ends up a hypocritical scoundrel like so many others.

After a few minutes, Dashvara blew on his piece of wood to clear away the sawdust and looked up at the twisted treetops of the swamps. The mist never left completely in Ariltuan.

“Tahisran?” he asked suddenly.

‘Mm?’

He was slow to speak and forgot what he wanted to ask. He shrugged.

“How old are you?”

The silence continued. Dashvara was beginning to think that the question was perhaps a little indiscreet when Tah replied:

‘I don’t know, Dash. A good number of years. I stopped counting them a long time ago. I don’t get old anyway.’

Dashvara’s eyes widened.

“Are you immortal?”

He perceived a mental smile.

‘No,’ the shadow admitted quietly. ‘I like to think that nothing is immortal. Yet, if you ask me if I am capable of dying of old age, I would be unable to answer you. I don’t know the answer. To be honest with you, it’s a question I try not to think about too much. When time has no limits, it has no meaning. And there’s nothing more disconcerting than something that doesn’t make sense.’

Dashvara stood still for a moment. What the shadow said was sobering. Who could be afraid of immortality? Not a mortal, anyway, but which fear was more terrible, a mortal’s fear of death or an immortal’s fear of eternity? He smiled, bewildered by his own thoughts.

In the end, you’re not the real philosopher of the group, Dash: the shadow beats you by a lot.

He left his dagger on a board to scratch his neck. His hand found a kind of lump, and Dashvara gasped in alarm.

“Tsu!” he cried. “I think I have another tick.”

The drow stopped playing the flute and nodded without wavering.

“Let’s go in. I’ll take it off for you.”

With the arrival of the inspector, the Xalyas had all gone outside, and now, the shack was completely deserted. In no time at all, Tsu took the cursed parasite away from him.

“What would we do without you, Tsu?” Dashvara smiled. “Sometimes I envy you,” he admitted while pouring himself a bowl of water. “Parasites don’t affect you. And in three years, you’ve never been sick.”

“I had a cold last winter,” the doctor reminded him with a small drow smile. “The heat makes me tired, but the worst thing is the cold.”

He paused, and his red eyes watched Dashvara as he drank. The water was pleasantly cool: they had collected it that very night, during a rain shower.

“Dash,” Tsu said suddenly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The low, hesitant tone alarmed Dashvara and intrigued him. He saw the drow sitting at the table, fiddling with his flute. He was nervous, and this was rather unusual. Dashvara sat down in front of him, attentive.

“What is it about?”

Tsu was slow to answer, but this was not so unusual: the drow had always been someone who tried to order his sentences before speaking them. Outside, the voices of the Xalyas could be heard, as well as the more distant rumble of the federate camp. A fly landed inches from Dashvara’s hand, but he sat quietly and waited patiently. Then, Tsu left his flute on the table, chasing the fly away.

“I know this is going to sound like madness to you,” he said, “but, in all my life as a slave, I have never known a free drow, and I wanted to let you know that I am going to try to talk with one of these Naskrahs tonight.”

Dashvara was left speechless. Tsu twisted his mouth into an apologetic smile.

“I thought I should let you know,” he insisted. “At least you.”

Dashvara tried to compose himself.

“Tsu,” he breathed in a low voice. “The whole palisade is guarded by federates. How will you get through without them seeing you? And even if you do, who’s to say the drows will welcome you with open arms? On the steppe, we were all humans, and look how we always fought against each other. Just because you’re a drow doesn’t mean that all the drows will welcome you like a…” he paused, realizing he was drifting off. You’re giving him stupid arguments because you’re afraid of losing him, aren’t you? You don’t want to help him find his freedom. What you want is for him to stay with you so he can continue to play his flute and remove your ticks. Face it, Dash. You’re being selfish. For once, Tsu finds the opportunity to run away and return with his people, and all you do is trying to convince him not to go. You can’t be more vile.

He sighed.

“Sorry, Tsu. You are right. You should give it a try. These drows will welcome you very well, surely. This is the chance of a lifetime. You mustn’t let it pass.” He met his red eyes and held them resolutely. “Do you have a plan?”