48. Punishments

‘The offense is unforgivable and deserves to be punished by death,’ Atasiag’s foreman had said.

Dashvara tensed up like a bowstring; his thoughts began to spin frantically. If this madman was sentencing Morzif to death, he was quite certain that more than one person would not be able to stay put, including himself. He assessed the possibilities. The two men from the Shyurd House were armed with swords; Wassag and Dafys had short staffs, and the foreman had a huge dog. There were six of them against twenty-three Xalyas whose only weapons were their fists… and two wooden crutches. Of course we can defeat them, Dash, but what then? You will die, and your brothers with you. The federates will crush you like an ant before you take ten steps.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zorvun pull Sashava by the sleeve and whisper something in his ear. Both of their eyes shone with restrained rage.

“Order,” Loxarios Ardel then resumed, after quickly noting the atmosphere, “is an essential principle in this house. A serious breach of discipline is treason, and the punishment for such a breach is death.”

He crossed his arms.

“Loyalty is fundamental in this house. The punishment for serious insubordination is death.”

His eyes scanned all the Xalyas again before looking beyond them to Shyurd’s men.

“However, Adifag Shyurd asked me to be merciful this time. Since he is the offended one, his concern deserves Atasiag Peykat’s consideration, and he has decided to commute the death penalty to forty lashes. Wassag!” he thundered.

The guard shuddered as if he had been hit.

“Yes, sir?”

“Bring the whip.”

Dashvara could clearly hear the sighs of relief from the Xalyas; however, several of them would have needed only a little push to rush at the foreman and strangle him. Forty lashes was savagery.

Foreman Lox stood straight, looking at the Xalyas as if observing a shipment of merchandise of dubious quality. His skin is made-up like a Diumcilian woman’s, Dashvara hissed. When he met his emerald gaze, he held it, wanting to make him understand by his attitude how much he appreciated his person. Loxarios remained totally impassive, but his black hound growled dully.

When Wassag returned with the whip, he was paler than a white sail. Without uncrossing his arms, Lox nodded.

“Get on with it, Wassag.”

The guard unfolded the whip, his hands trembling. Dashvara felt a mixture of fear, anger, and frustration. This federate was going to whip a Xalya, and he was going to accept it so placidly?

I’d rather die, he rumbled.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he stood up abruptly and said aloud:

“As lord of the Xalyas, I claim the right to punish this man myself. Sir,” he added, hoping that a hint of submission might repair his glare somewhat.

Only a slight movement of the eyebrows informed him that Loxarios had heard and listened to his words. After a few seconds of tense silence, Wassag hissed nervously.

“Sit down, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara did not sit down nor look away from the foreman. Slowly, Lox nodded.

“Interesting proposal. Wassag? Give him the whip and count the strokes. Then give him five lashes for his insolence. In this house, soldier, the only lord is His Eminence. As for you, you are nothing but a servant.”

Dashvara swallowed, surprised, not so much by the announcement of the five lashes as because the foreman had granted his wish.

Satisfied? he laughed as Wassag gave him the whip. He knew in the back of his mind that he was doing the right thing: if anyone was going to enforce justice among Xalyas, it had to be another Xalya, as it had always been, and not a stranger; however, even so, it cost him to have to chastise a man whose only crime had been to believe he recognized his son and to try to get him back.

But Morzif knew that, for the sake of his brothers, he should not act impulsively, Dashvara reasoned. Come to think of it, the sooner the Xalyas understand that Atasiag is not going to treat us any better than they treat slaves, the less trouble we will have. That snake will not hesitate to punish us as he sees fit if he believes we are endangering his interests.

Of course, Dashvara would have preferred to lecture him than to give him forty lashes. Sighing inwardly, he turned his head to the captain, who responded with an imperceptible nod of approval. Are we delegating the dirty work again, Captain?

With a gloomy face, he took a few steps forward and approached Morzif. The Xalya’s teeth were clenched, and his eyes were red from crying.

“I am sorry, my lord,” the Blacksmith stammered. “I lost my mind.”

Dashvara didn’t need him to explain why he was sorry: everyone was aware that his little escapade had left the Xalyas in a critical position. He patted him on the shoulder.

“Are you going to be brave, brother?” he asked in Common Tongue.

Morzif looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and then he smiled, and his eyes sparkled with life.

“By the Eternal Bird, I will,” he promised.

“Try not to faint,” Dashvara added, his voice trembling. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

He waved the whip. It was lighter than the one he had used against the bandits on the steppe, but the strap was no less stiff. Without even glancing at the foreman, who had gathered with Shyurd’s men, he raised his whip, tried it once, twice against the ground, and finally, he clapped in Oy’vat:

“Brothers! Let’s not let these dogs tamper with our Eternal Bird. Now, survival is our priority, but I swear to you that I will do everything I can to save our pride, in addition to our lives.” He took a deep breath and prepared to deliver the first lash. “Be sure that at least I will try.”

The slamming sound clapped against Morzif’s bare skin without drawing out any screams. Dashvara counted the blows, giving the Xalya a few seconds’ respite between each impact. He had rarely felt so angry, and he was careful not to look up at the foreman; otherwise, the whip hand might well have deflected inadvertently.

The sky darkened and brightened again. Dashvara gasped, and Morzif leaned his head against the column, struggling to stay conscious.

Twenty-four.

He kept striking, trying not to hit the same spot too many times, but it was starting to become relatively impossible: Zif’s back was already all bloody, and it was hard to know where he could whip to inflict the least possible damage. Tsu was going to have his work cut out for him to repair this damage. Dashvara gave another lash, blinked, and looked back at Morzif. His heart sank.

“Eternal Bird, what am I doing?” he whispered. His words were lost, choked in his throat.

He was at thirty-one when he heard a sound of hooves and a screeching of wheels. Dazed, Dashvara turned his head to see a carriage with a blue circle drawn on one of the doors enter the courtyard. Only then did he see that Shyurd’s men and the foreman had already left. At least they weren’t so sadistic as to stay and watch, he thought to himself. He was about to continue with his obligation when he saw Atasiag leave the house, followed by Loxarios. The snake headed straight for the carriage, where old Leoshu was already helping down a beautiful young Diumcilian woman adorned in the most sophisticated dress Dashvara had ever seen in his life. He immediately felt contempt for such a display of wealth and coldly turned his back on her.

Let’s get this over with.

Dashvara raised the whip. A sudden horrified scream made him stop dead in his tracks.

“My dear daughters!” Atasiag cried out. “Excuse this unseemly reception. There have been some disciplinary problems, that’s all. Come on in. Come in, both of you. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Don’t tell me Lanamiag Korfu kicked you out of his country house?” he joked.

Slowly snapping out of his stupor, Dashvara turned his head and looked back at the girl. There were two of them, both made-up and dressed as luxuriously as the daughters of a king. Without a doubt, he knew he would never recognize them. Fayrah and Lessi had become two women of incredible beauty. The only thing he was able to think was: they look healthy.

Dashvara swallowed as Atasiag took each of them by the arm and led them inside. Despite a certain stiffness, both walked with the natural elegance of ladies accustomed to the mundane. Neither turned to look at them.

“Hey, you,” the foreman Loxarios suddenly said. “Go on with your work.”

Dashvara looked away from his sister almost with relief: he wasn’t sure how to interpret the flash of fear he thought he recognized in her eyes. Had Morzif’s condition frightened her? It could be: as far as he knew, in the Xalya Dungeon, Fayrah had never attended the corrections for serious offenses. Dashvara growled inwardly. He never imagined he would see Fayrah again under such dire circumstances. As Atasiag disappeared with his daughters, he raised the whip and unconsciously struck with more force. Morzif let out a muffled groan.

Eternal Bird… are you stupid, Dash? Now you just have to take it out on your brothers.

He breathed in and whispered:

“Thirty-two.”

At least he now had the assurance that Fayrah and Lessi were okay. Thirty-three. He had to admit that Atasiag seemed to treat them as they deserved. Thirty-four. But, on the other hand, he feared that Fayrah had changed in those three years. What if she wore all that finery out of sheer pleasure? Such a display of luxury repulsed him. To him, the daughters of Atasiag were a vivid image of the deep and bloody gap between the social classes within the Federation.

He was at thirty-eight. Courage, Morzif. Two more and I’ll leave you in peace. Two more and then it’s my turn. A vindictive voice added in his head: And one day, your turn will come, Atasiag Peykat. Your cruelty may be justified, but your turn will come.

He gave another lash, clearly not as strong as the previous one, but the kind-hearted Wassag made no comment. Dashvara gave the last blow and let the whip fall to the ground like one who releases a snake. In the middle of a deathly silence, he breathed without energy:

“I’ve never felt so ridiculous. Or rather,” he corrected, turning with a wobble to the Xalyas, “I’ve never felt so unfair.”

None of his brothers responded. He hurried to free Morzif. The Blacksmith was still conscious, but just barely.

“Arvara, Maef: help me carry him inside,” Dashvara said. “Wassag, give Tsu what he needs to fix this.”

Arvara and Maef quickly got up to help him, and step by step, they moved forward until they deposited Morzif in the dormitory.

“How do you feel, Blacksmith?” Maef asked, his voice hoarse.

Morzif was shaking, and his back was still bleeding profusely.

“He was my son,” he muttered to himself. “He was my son.”

Dashvara knelt down heavily next to the Xalya.

“I’m sorry too, Morzif,” he whispered in Oy’vat. “But you can’t save your son by forcing him out of a federate house. If it were really him—”

“It was him,” Morzif said weakly.

Dashvara nodded sadly.

“Then I’ll help you get him out, Morzif. But not now. First, we must earn our freedom.”

Morzif’s eyes opened with lucidity.

“Freedom is not earned, my lord: freedom is something you take.”

Dashvara almost thought he heard Maloven giving him a moral lesson. He felt moved.

“You’re right.” He straightened up. “You are absolutely right. But, before we take it, we must make sure that neither you nor any of our brothers will die in the process.”

Maef blew through his nose.

“If the Shyurd had not intervened, they would have tried to kill Morzif. What would you have done then, lord of the Xalyas?”

Dashvara met his bitter gaze, ignored the doubt shining in his eyes, and shook his head.

“I probably would have sent the Contract flying over the oceans and slit the throat of that Loxarios.”

Maef raised an eyebrow as he scrutinized him.

“Probably?”

A wild smile stretched Dashvara’s lips.

“Well, let’s just say I would have hesitated between that and slicing Atasiag’s.”

Maef answered him with the same animal smile: there was nothing better than a very categorical answer to win the esteem of this Xalya. Dashvara’s smile turned more human.

“The matter is closed,” he concluded. “In the future, you’d better not enter any foreign houses, eh, Blacksmith?”

Tsu arrived with all the necessary medical supplies, and while the drow was busy working with that impassive expression he adopted in such circumstances, Dashvara saw Wassag pass his hand over his forehead several times. He approached.

“Are you okay, Wassag?”

The Diumcilian huffed, altered, and finally looked away from Morzif’s back.

“Let’s just say I haven’t seen this punishment in a long time,” he explained in a whisper.

Dashvara looked at him eloquently.

“Well, you’re going to have to do more than see. You owe me five lashes, remember? I was insolent,” he reminded him with an amused smile.

Wassag looked at him as if he had gone mad.

“You say it as if you wanted to get your punishment,” he observed.

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I dream every night that I am being whipped for insolence. It’s recreational. Come on, Wassag,” he resumed more seriously, seeing that the guard was only half catching the irony. “I assure you, if I could avoid it by reasonable means, I would. But it’s only five lashes. In a few minutes, you’ll be done.”

A strange gleam passed through Wassag’s eyes.

“Then rejoice,” he said, “the foreman has ordered me to cancel your punishment. Orders from His Eminence.”

Dashvara did not know how to react to this. He opened his mouth, closed it, blew out his breath, and left the dormitory to go to dinner with the others. This dinner was much less cheerful than the previous night’s, and also much shorter: after taking leave of Uncle Serl, they returned to the dormitory, anxious to know how Morzif was doing. They found Tsu bandaging his wounds.

“He will keep scars,” he informed under a confused shower of questions. “But he’ll get better.”

The atmosphere improved considerably. In any case, the old Compassives were too used to hard knocks to stay long with dark thoughts. Showing all his teeth, Orafe the Grouch remarked:

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“The Blacksmith was the only one who had almost no scars. Now he will feel less alone.”

Several people gave him doubtful looks, but there was no further comment on the subject. The captain simply added:

“From now on, we know who we are dealing with, guys. Let’s get used to the idea that Atasiag Peykat is just a slaver who acts like one.”

“Well, I almost preferred Compassion,” Sashava muttered, leaving his crutches behind and sitting on his pallet.

Dashvara, in turn, sat down next to Morzif and watched Tsu’s work with interest for a few seconds. Just seeing the efficiency with which the drow worked was enough to know that this was not the first time he had treated wounds caused by the whip. Then Dashvara put the bowl of soup he had filled in the kitchen next to him.

“You haven’t had dinner yet, Tsu. I brought this for you.”

The drow shook his head.

“I’m almost done.”

Dashvara frowned as he recognized one of the bags the drow had placed next to the injured man. It was the small bag of belsadia that the Akres doctor had given him three days ago. So Tsu had not thrown the leaves away and had given one to Morzif; that explained why Morzif’s face seemed relatively placid despite his condition.

With a sigh, Dashvara leaned against the wall and suddenly felt exhausted. For a long time, he remained totally unaware of everything that was happening around him. Absurdly, he suddenly found himself thinking about the quiet life of the Shalussis in Nanda’s village. About the peaceful life on the steppe. About the herds of ilawatelks that crossed the steppe freely from south to north and from north to south, roaming the horizons. Then his thoughts swirled chaotically: he remembered the lessons of the ancient sages, he remembered all that the lords of the steppe and their subjects had fought for. Dignity, trust, and brotherhood, this was the lemma of the true clans of the steppe. At that moment, the precepts of the Eternal Bird made more sense to him than ever.

It was Tahisran who drew him out of his nostalgia.

‘Dash? What are you thinking?’

Dashvara noticed that the shadow was sitting next to him. He looked around. Tsu was nowhere to be seen, Makarva and the Triplets were playing katutas more quietly than usual, and Zorvun was speculating with others about Lessi’s and Fayrah’s role in Atasiag Peykat’s plans and in the Brotherhood of the Pearl.

“What am I thinking?” Dashvara repeated a little belatedly. He shrugged. “I don’t know, Tah. I’m afraid today my Eternal Bird is too tired to think.”

Tahisran swayed gently.

‘I think I understand you,’ he admitted.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Really? Have you ever whipped a brother unfairly, Tah?”

The shadow did not answer. Obviously, he hadn’t. Dashvara let out a sigh.

“You know what I fear most, Tahisran?” he whispered. “It is to receive one of those blows that prevent you from getting up. To see my brothers’ Eternal Birds defeated and not be able to do anything to save them.” A sardonic smile played on his lips. “And I am afraid of myself, Tah. I think of my principles and wonder if I am capable of living up to them, and at the same time, I fear that some of those principles are wrong and lead me to commit folly out of sheer obstinacy.” He hesitated. “I’m confusing you, aren’t I?”

Tahisran smiled mentally.

‘A little,’ he confessed. ‘What principles are you talking about?’

Dashvara breathed in.

“About fundamental principles, that’s the main problem. I wonder to what extent one can give up one’s honor to keep one’s life. I know that, unlike Lord Vifkan, I would give up everything to save the life of one of my brothers. But I don’t know to what extent a lord of Xalyas can or should give up his dignity to save his own life. And yet, my arrogance asks me to save it for the sake of my brothers. As if I could save them better than they could save themselves. Ah. Sometimes I am prouder than my lord father.” He smiled. “You see, it seems that those forty lashes have messed with my head. I’m asking myself stupid questions instead of making decisions. I should go to Atasiag and demand that he explain to me what his true intentions are. He’s fighting slavery, supposedly. What kind of person can fight slavery and have slaves? This is absurd behavior. Yes,” he said in a whisper. “I should go and ask him for an explanation right away. I’m ready to beg him to give it to me. And if anything like today happens again, I will ask him to punish me and only me for not keeping my men in check.”

Without waiting for Tahisran’s answer, he stood up and walked towards the door with determination.

“Where are you going, Dash?” Makarva asked.

“To set things straight with the snake,” Dashvara replied from the threshold.

He left before anyone could say anything. The sky had already darkened, and lights had been turned on at the main entrance to the house. In the courtyard, he saw Lumon and Tsu whispering.

“Dash?” the Archer called to him, stepping away from the drow, eyebrows raised. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing for now,” Dashvara assured without stopping.

He headed for the main door that led to the great hall of Atasiag. A few steps separated him from the columns when, suddenly, a small hooded figure stood in his way. Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks, startled. Eternal Bird, where did that one come from?

“Back off, Xalya,” a female voice said. “You may not enter here unless His Eminence summons you.”

Dashvara looked the figure up and down without losing his composure.

“I see. Out of curiosity, how many people work for Atasiag Peykat?” he asked.

The hooded woman remained silent.

“Are you a slave?” She didn’t answer either. Dashvara scanned her again. “You are a woman, aren’t you? Can I see your face? You see, it’s disturbing to talk to a hooded person.” He closed his mouth and opened it again. “Well, I said talk, but it’s not quite that. I feel like I’m talking to myself in front of a wall.”

The silence of the hooded woman began to exasperate him.

“Listen, Federate. This rarely happens to me, but today, I’m in a terrible mood. I want to see His Eminence. I need to talk to him about something important.”

He heard a sound like a gasp of amazement.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the figure snapped. “You are a worker. You can’t ask His Eminence to speak with you. Turn around and go back to your dormitory at once if you want me to forget your words.”

Dashvara was wondering what punishment would be in store for him if he disabled the guard and forced his way into Atasiag’s chambers when Lumon’s soft voice sounded behind him.

“Do what she says, Dash. Atasiag will call you in someday for sure, and then, you can tell him what you want to tell him, but for now, let’s go back to the dorm.”

Dashvara let out a roar.

“Okay. Tell me, woman, are you always watching that door?”

“Speak to me with more respect, Xalya, and perhaps I will answer you,” the hooded woman hissed.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“I speak with all the respect of which I am capable, given the circumstances. Good night.”

He turned his back on her and walked with Tsu and Lumon back to the dorms in silence. Zamoy had poked his head out to spy on them, and Dashvara pushed him fraternally inside.

“You’re nosier than a cat, Baldy.”

“I see you’ve made things clear with our master,” Zamoy smiled mockingly.

Dashvara sighed and paced back and forth in the dormitory, absorbed in his thoughts, before realizing that more than one Xalya was watching his comings and goings with an amused eye. He abruptly sat down, and his fingers began to drum against the wooden floor.

“You’re in a bad mood, boy,” Sashava observed.

Dashvara met the old Xalya’s inquisitive gaze and confirmed:

“I’m in a bad mood.”

“Well, go to sleep,” Maltagwa the Gardener advised him wisely. “Today has been too busy. I think we all deserve a good rest.”

Dashvara nodded heavily and shuffled over to his pallet before uttering:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over your dreams, brothers.”

They disorderly wished each other a good night, Atok turned off the candelabra, and the room went dark. Almost immediately Zamoy sneezed violently and mumbled something about colds and his impending death… Miflin and Kodarah grunted in response, and Dashvara smiled. Closing his eyes, he could almost believe he was back in the barracks of Compassion. Surrounded by grass and swamps, with no master on the horizon and almost free to do as they pleased… Even before the last murmurs died, Dashvara fell asleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night thinking he was emerging from some nightmare, but a second later, he couldn’t remember a thing. To tell the truth, he didn’t try to remember. Half sleepwalking, he got up to check Morzif’s pulse. It was beating.

Hmph. Of course it’s beating, Dash, he scoffed patiently. Tsu healed him, and Morzif is not a fragile kid. He’s over fifty years old, and he’s a tough Xalya. A sturdy blacksmith who has spent more than half his life beating steel. Go back to sleep, now, and stop worrying.

He was about to return to his pallet, but something pushed him towards the door, and he went out silently into the night without knowing very well why. He walked around the paved courtyard for a few minutes, scanning the shadows of the columns and then the bars of the gate. There was no one there, or at least he could see no one. He resumed his walk in circles, not like a wolf in a cage, but a bit like Maloven did when he was deep in thought. The difference was that Dashvara, unlike the shaard, did not come to any definite conclusions.

Haha, he laughed mentally with sarcasm. You mean Maloven was coming to decisive conclusions? But, come on, this old man is the most doubtful man you’ve ever known in your life!

The sky was clear, and the stars twinkled softly, lonely in their bottomless pit. The Moon was barely visible, and the Candle showed a faint glowing arc to the north; only half a Gem managed to light up the night a little. It was quite comforting to think that the sky was always the same, whether one was at the Border, in Titiaka, or on the steppe. Only a few hundred miles separated him from his former home. His old home that was destroyed by the savages.

Demons, Dash, today you are particularly nostalgic. Didn’t you think the steppe was lost for years already?

Moved by an indefinable feeling, he sat down in the middle of the courtyard, near the fountain, and lay down to look at the stars. There, slightly to the north, was the Scorpion constellation. According to Towder, the leader of Dignity, when the last star in the tail aligned with the others, the world as the sajits knew it would end. Who knows if that was true or not: he probably wouldn’t be able to verify it in this lifetime anyway. In any case, Towder believed unconditionally in the omens of the Holy Book. He was the son of a priestess of Cili and believed in the Eleven Graces with the same firmness with which the Xalyas defended their Eternal Bird. It was funny to see how, for some people, the intensity of a belief increased in proportion to the hardships endured.

Sometimes I wish I had my Eternal Bird written like the Diumcilians in their Sacred Book, Dashvara mused, hands behind his head. It would be easier to follow it. Of course, in that case, I wouldn’t read my real Eternal Bird, but someone else’s. He frowned, frustrated. But why so much hesitation, all of a sudden? In the old days, on the steppe, I didn’t use to doubt so much, and I don’t remember ever doing anything wrong. Perhaps so many time on the Border has made me more indecisive?

He was slow to hear the murmur of approaching footsteps. When he saw the hooded figure appear in his field of vision, he did not move.

“You’ve been here for over half an hour looking at who knows what,” the hooded woman observed. “Can I know what you’re doing?”

She seemed intrigued. Dashvara smiled.

“I look at the stars,” he answered calmly.

There was a silence. The hooded woman stood a few steps to his right, stiff as a raven. She didn’t seem inclined to speak, but she didn’t go away either. At least, she had felt curious enough to approach. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry I was a little abrupt just earlier. I didn’t mean to offend you. My name is Dashvara,” he introduced himself.

He waited patiently, and his patience was rewarded with a brief but satisfying answer:

“I am Yira.”

Dashvara turned his head back to the hooded woman, surprised at the almost shy note he heard in her voice.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured in a sincere tone.

He looked up at the stars again, thinking that Yira might eventually say something, but she just stood there, as still as the columns that surrounded the courtyard. Finally, Dashvara decided to break the silence again.

“On the steppe, some people think that the stars are the eyes of the Eternal Bird.” He paused for a moment. “Do you know what the Eternal Bird is, Yira?”

She gave a slight shrug, and Dashvara continued:

“It is one of the pillars of the philosophy of the Ancient Sages. It is more than two thousand years old, and we, the Xalyas, have defended it for centuries. You see, the Eternal Bird is what keeps the consciousness united with the acts. It maintains our cohesion. The sum of my brothers’ Eternal Birds keeps my clan united. All respect each other, as the feathers of the same bird respect each other. The Xalya Eternal Bird is our Dahars. It is what guides us in our actions and our thinking. As you Diumcilians would say, it is the compass that shows us the right path.”

To his surprise, Yira bent down and crouched on the cobblestone floor only a few steps away. She clasped her gloved hands together in her lap before whispering:

“But an evil person can keep his conscience united with his deeds by acting wrongly. According to what you explain, this person also respects his Eternal Bird, right?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. Apart from the Chubby, he hadn’t spoken about the Eternal Bird to anyone but his brothers in a long time, and even then, few of them were willing to have big conversations about it. What on earth are you doing rambling on about the Eternal Bird to an unknown federate? He smiled, amused. She must think you’re mad as hell… But whatever. He drew a deep breath and said:

“Everybody has an Eternal Bird. Even foreigners. A Xalya who, for some reason, would be perverse and act wrongly would be consistent with his Eternal Bird, but not with that of his clan. Therefore, he would be an outcast and would cease to be a Xalya.”

Yira plucked a grass that was growing between the stones before glancing up at the sky. Dashvara thought he caught a glimpse of her eyes before the hooded woman lowered them.

“You whipped one of your own and left him half dead.”

Dashvara heard a slight hesitation in her voice, as if she was afraid to anger him with her comment and end the conversation. He looked at the Scorpion stars before answering firmly:

“I respected his dignity and the dignity of the Xalyas. And I saved Wassag the trouble of going through it. However,” he added after a silence, “I confess that Atasiag is succeeding in swaying my Eternal Bird as it has never done in three years.”

He closed his eyes and listened to Titiaka’s nightly rumble. The breeze had picked up and was gently swirling in the courtyard. For some reason, he couldn’t feel tense in the company of this foreigner. He was half asleep when Yira suddenly said:

“I’m not a worker.”

Dashvara flinched slightly and opened his eyes to see that the hooded woman had not moved.

“I was,” she said, “but I am not anymore. His Eminence set me free two years ago.”

Dashvara frowned, uncrossed and recrossed his legs. The pavement of the courtyard was not particularly comfortable.

“So you were a slave of Atasiag.”

“He took me in when I was a child.”

“Oh,” he quipped. “So it took quite a few years for His Eminence to decide to set you free.”

“Freedom would have been useless to me,” the hooded woman replied without altering. “Besides, His Eminence took care of me like a father.”

“A father, eh? And why do you call him Eminence, then?” As soon as he asked that, Dashvara thought that, all things considered, he often called his father “my lord,” like the other Xalyas. He spoke again before Yira replied, “Well, if you are like a daughter to him, you should be able to answer some questions I have in mind. Unless you are forbidden to?”

“Mm. I may be like his daughter, but I don’t know all of His Eminence’s secrets.” Yira hesitated and sighed, “What do you want to know?”

Dashvara turned to her in amazement. He immediately came to life.

“Are you really going to answer me?” he said.

He sat down, and for a second, he feared that the hooded woman would fly away like a bird, but despite a slight recoil, she stayed in her place. Good.

“First, do all the people in this house know who Atasiag Peykat actually is?”

Yira made a sound like a contained laugh.

“Atasiag Peykat has always been Atasiag Peykat. Be careful with your questions, Xalya. My father says that a question can betray more than any answer.”

“Your father is very wise,” Dashvara replied. “So he has always been a Titiaka citizen. And where is the rest of his family?”

It took Yira a few seconds to respond.

“I don’t know exactly,” she finally admitted. “I know he has two sons in Agoskura. Unless they are mere wards. I think one is a merchant, and the other, I don’t know for sure. He never talks about his wife or his parents, but it’s possible that they had some… some misfortune a long time ago. Uncle Serl is the only one who knows about his past. He worked for him as a spy. I think they have known each other since childhood. But I never managed to get anything out of him, and I advise you not to try, or my father will get angry. He doesn’t like people snooping into his personal life.”

Dashvara finally released the air he was holding in his lungs. The smiling and generous elfocan, a spy? Inwardly, he could only feel disappointed. Then he shook his head.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Yira laughed softly.

“You ask me to answer your questions, and then you wonder why I answer them? Well.” She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I tell you? After all, it’s like I already know you. You’re the brother of one of my best friends.”

Dashvara stared at the black hood, dumbfounded.

“Are you Fayrah’s friend?”

“Exactly. I think I’m the only one with Atasiag who knows about your relationship, even though officially Fayrah and Lessi are recognized as princesses of the Rocdinfer steppe. So I suppose it won’t be long before Wassag and the others realize that you come from the same clan.”

Dashvara exhaled loudly. Questions whirled in his head.

“Princesses of the steppe?” he echoed. “It’s been two hundred years since there were any kings or princes or princesses in Rocdinfer, Federate.”

Yira shrugged.

“According to Fayrah, she is heir to the lords of the Xalyas.”

“Mmph.” Dashvara rolled his eyes. “That’s different. I guess then that Atasiag doesn’t treat them the same way he treats my brothers and me.”

Although he could not see her face, he thought he perceived a movement of surprise.

“You did see her get out of the carriage, didn’t you? She lives like a perfect princess.”

He noticed a touch of affectionate mockery in her voice.

“Indeed, that’s the impression she gave me,” Dashvara admitted. “But what about the rest? I mean, is she happy? Is she really free?”

Yira tilted her head.

“Well… I haven’t talked to her for two weeks. Lanamiag Korfu invited her and Lessi to one of his mansions north of the capital for the Mask Festival. Fayrah is…” she cleared her throat. “I mean, she looks pretty happy, if you ask me. And so does Lessi. They’re as free as citizens can be. Believe me, my father is very fond of them and treats them as if they were his own daughters. To me, he has never given me such luxurious clothes, but I must said that, if he had, I would certainly have thrown them back at his face.”

Dashvara guessed her smile and smiled back. Then he shook his head, suspicious.

“If Fayrah is your friend, I can’t believe you didn’t know what the Eternal Bird was.”

The hooded woman casually dropped a handful of grass on the ground.

“Fayrah mentioned the Eternal Bird more than once,” she admitted. “But… when I wanted to know what it was, she didn’t answer me. In that, she is like my father: she does not like to talk about the past. She did, however, tell me a little about you.”

Dashvara remained disconcerted.

“The past?” he repeated. “The Eternal Bird is never in the past. I don’t understand how… Bah.” He made an impatient gesture. “Never mind. Tell me, today I learned that the Master that Atasiag is fighting is a certain Dikaksunora. He’s from a Legitimate family, isn’t he?”

Yira did not answer immediately, as if the change of subject had caught her off guard. Finally, she said:

“Menfag Dikaksunora is a powerful Legitimate. Atasiag does not fight him. That’s above his capacities. He simply negotiates and works for the interests of the Korfu and the Yordark. Listen, it’s better if you don’t ask for more details. I don’t know them, and besides, this is business for the citizens. It’s enough to work for them, don’t you think? Surely they must know what they are doing. I’m content with knowing that I have to protect His Eminence. And you should be content with that too.”

Dashvara looked at the hooded woman in amazement. Finally, he smiled.

“Good advice,” he agreed. “Tell me, Yira, do you ever think of taking off that hood?”

Yira remained motionless for a few seconds and then suddenly stood up.

“You should go back to sleep.”

Puzzled, Dashvara hurried to his feet when he saw her walk away.

“Wait!” he protested. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please.”

Without meaning to, he used a slightly pleading tone, and the hooded woman stopped. Her pose was again as rigid as that of an animal on the prowl, ready to flee… or to attack.

Demons, and all this because I asked her to show me her face? Dashvara was astonished. He clasped his hands together and said ceremoniously:

“I don’t know when His Eminence will grant me the privilege of speaking with one of his daughters, so if you can talk to one of them, tell her that we have missed them very much, both I and Captain Zorvun, and that we are willing to be patient as long as they and especially their… father,” he cleared his throat, “are also patient with us.”

Yira nodded, and her voice was friendly when she replied:

“I’ll tell them.”

“Wait,” Dashvara insisted, seeing that her back was turned to him again. “I would also be very grateful to you if you would succeed in telling His Eminence that, from now on, he will not have to worry about the Xalyas’ discipline.”

Yira hesitated before nodding again.

“I’ll tell him. But, honestly, I don’t think he’s very worried about your discipline. My father has interests, and he will protect them, by all means. If you cause him any more trouble, he will chastise you or simply sell you out.” She paused for a moment. “It is in your interest to help him, is it not?”

Dashvara nodded curtly.

“And we will help him. But it would be easier if he gave us back our freedom.”

“Mmph.” Yira seemed amused. “Trust me, freedom is relative. With the mark of the Red Dragon, the prestige of Atasiag Peykat protects you. In Titiaka, you are much safer with it than without. Good night, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara sighed and nodded at her.

“Good night, Yira, and thank you for keeping me company. I think I’m in a slightly better mood,” he smiled.

He turned his back on her and walked back to the dormitory. Groping in the dark, he passed by Morzif and couldn’t help but check his pulse one more time… You’re getting hysterical, Dash. Like he’s going to die now, in his sleep.

When he lay down on his mat, he found that Tah was no longer in the bag. He was not surprised: after all, Tahisran was a shadow. He could roam freely in Titiaka without fear of being called out. He didn’t have to worry about food, money, or freedom if he was careful enough. For a moment, he envied him. Only for a moment.