60. The funeral

“Master, master, master!” Dashvara cried with a wide smile. “I found the flower you told me about. The featherflower! It’s this one, isn’t it? I want you to keep it, Master.”

Maloven picked up the golden petals with a smile, but to Dashvara’s surprise and indignation, he reached over the battlements of the dungeon and threw the petals to the wind.

“The petals are only the appearance of the inner beauty, little one. It is the stem that produces them. What have you done with it, Dashvara?”

“I… I ripped it off and threw it away,” Dashvara stammered.

Maloven passed a loving hand over his disciple’s young head and whispered in his wise voice:

“You have done wrong. The Eternal Bird shows its feathers to the world by its actions. But the feathers fall, wither, change, and are reborn. What really matters is beyond these feathers, regardless of their color: you will find a star whose light only you can see, but the important thing is that you see it… Are you listening to me, Dashvara?”

* * *

He passed out soon after he spoke his own requiem, and when he regained consciousness, albeit half-heartedly, he didn’t know if he was dead or alive. He had lost a great deal of blood, and he felt empty inside, as exhausted as when the ternian Aydin Kohor had nursed him back to health in his wagon on the road to Rocavita.

The second time he woke up, he opened his eyes and saw the moon against a dark sky. From the shaking, he knew he was being carried on a litter. Or was it an open coffin? He lost consciousness with this macabre thought in his mind, with the conviction that he had ceased to exist. When he came to, he heard a muffled sob and a voice declaiming in Diumcilian:

May Patience and Serenity guide him on the path of Faith and Death.

May he present himself to Almighty Cili with Discretion, Humility, and Courtesy.

May he enter her Domains with Constancy.

And may he be Worthy and Brave in the face of the Sacrifice that Life has entrusted to him.

Do, Cili, by Compassion, that this ungrateful, enslaved, and pagan soul who bore in his first life the name of Dashvara of Xalya may rise to your throne.

Do, by Sympathy, his sins be received and forgiven by your noble benevolence…

Dashvara opened his eyes in a daze. He saw, standing before him, an elf dressed in a long blue and purple tunic. He was in the living room of Atasiag Peykat.

Gradually, the elf’s words made sense in his mind, and they seemed so ridiculous that, for a moment, he did not believe them. However, as the priest continued to speak, he had to begin to contemplate the reality: incredibly, he was sitting in an open coffin, decked out with colorful clothes. He opened his rigid fists and discovered a piece of wood carved in the shape of an eagle. Dashvara recognized it at once: it was the one he had given to Inspector Chubby at Compassion. How on earth did it end up in his hands?

Then he began to seriously consider the fact that he was really dead and in some kind of heaven or something. But do dead people have such a headache in Cili’s paradise? he thought wryly. Tired of listening to the ravings of this Cilian priest, he took a breath and sat up. Or at least he tried: he only had the strength to raise one of his arms.

Immediately, a clamor of amazement rose in the room. Dashvara saw Fayrah fall unconscious. Faces surrounded him on all sides, he noticed. What were those people doing at Atasiag? I have to get out of here, he mentally muttered. But he was too tired. Too hungry and thirsty. And half dead.

He was dressed in an impeccable white tunic, he noted. Since when was a slave given such a lavish funeral? His appearance and the situation seemed so incongruous that he didn’t know how to react: should he feel horrified that he was almost buried alive or should he laugh at this madness?

The loud uproar drew the priest out of his prayers; when the elf lowered his eyes, he raised his hands to his head and shouted:

“May the Graces have mercy on us, he’s alive!”

Dashvara winced.

“Of course I’m alive,” he growled. Only a guttural sound escaped his lips.

Someone helped him out of the coffin and onto one of the living room sofas. It was Wassag. He was wearing light blue clothes, the color of death in Diumcili.

“The King is alive!” exclaimed a voice he did not recognize.

The exclamation was echoed by others who spoke of resurrections and miracles. From the sofa, Dashvara looked at them, dumbfounded.

“The King?” he repeated. This time he managed to articulate the syllables. His eyes closed with sheer fatigue.

“By Serenity,” Tsu’s trembling voice breathed out. “Make them all get out. Eminence, tell them to get out. He is alive, but he is very weak.”

Dashvara smiled inwardly. Has anyone ever seen this? A slave giving orders to his master… And, to top it all off, Atasiag addressed this entire unknown procession by saying:

“Please! A little respect. Get out or you’ll end up killing him with your screams. Please,” he repeated. “Get out. Go home. Yes, I promise you, I will inform you of his condition first thing tomorrow. And now, by the Graces of Cili, grant us some peace.”

The noise gradually subsided and the footsteps became fewer and fewer. Someone said:

“Long live his Eternal Bird!”

Dashvara opened his eyes and met the fervent gaze of a young Diumcilian wearing a blue tunic and a golden belt. What the hell was a citizen doing talking about Eternal Birds?

“Dash,” Tsu’s voice said. “Can you hear me?”

Dashvara parted his lips.

“I hear you,” he replied. “Water. Please.”

“Of course.”

Footsteps moved away and others approached.

“Yorlen, Wassag,” Atasiag’s voice called out. “Take Fayrah to her room. Lessi, go with them and take care of her. Leoshu, tell the morticians to remove the funeral carriage. Reassure them that I will pay for the transport anyway. Philosopher,” he said. He stood by the sofa, and Dashvara could see his expression. A slight smile played on his lips as he said, “You are indestructible.”

Dashvara breathed in softly.

“Not so much.”

“You were dead,” Atasiag added. “Totally dead. When Faag Yordark brought you here, your heart was no longer beating. You are incredible, Philosopher.”

Dashvara exhaled.

“Who were those people?” he asked.

“Mmph. Students,” Atasiag replied. “Admirers of that old Maloven. He told them that you were the last King of the Eternal Bird.” He sat down beside him. “He was your master, wasn’t he?”

Dashvara did not even have the strength to be surprised.

“Yes,” he confirmed in a whisper.

The water finally arrived, and Dashvara thought he felt the energy surge through his body again as he finished the first drink. He drank another, and another, until Tsu stopped him.

“That’s enough. Now go to sleep. I will give you more water when you wake up.”

Outside, a sudden commotion was heard.

“Daaash!”

“Dashvara!”

“Brother!”

It was the Xalyas. Blood pounding against his temples, Dashvara gave Atasiag a pleading look.

“Can you let them in?”

Tsu mumbled softly. Atasiag hesitated but finally agreed and got up to open the door for them. It was as if a tide of orcs had suddenly invaded the house. But they were not orcs: they were his people.

“Son!” Zorvun exclaimed, his voice trembling, falling to his knees before him. “You were dead. I really thought you were. These Diumcilians bury people at the drop of a hat. Oh, Liadirlá, how do you feel?”

Dashvara could only focus on what the captain was saying. He felt his hand grip his firmly, and he smiled.

“I feel, which is not bad. Tell me,” he added in a hushed voice, “how the hell did this get here?” He pointed to the wooden eagle he held in his fist. “I gave it to Chubby.”

Zorvun’s eyes shone.

“Oh. I think he heard about what happened to you from some student friends and he came. The Diumcilians have a custom of giving things to the dead. Listen, Dash. Now, don’t die on us, okay? You can’t play with our feelings like that.”

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“Exactly,” Orafe said, his cheeks moistened with tears. “If you’re going to resurrect, resurrect for real. Don’t be a makarver.”

All without exception were crying. Even Sashava. Makarva and Zamoy had knelt down next to the captain; the former, with his emaciated face, was saying a prayer to his Eternal Bird. The others were all silent with emotion. Dashvara smiled tremulously, his heart more alive than ever.

“Weren’t you supposed to be practicing solfata, Mak?” he muttered.

Makarva smiled and inhaled sharply.

“The Yordarks sent us back with you. They declared us ‘unusable’. I couldn’t even ride a horse knowing you were dead,” he confessed.

“I am not dead,” Dashvara assured. “There is no such thing as resurrection. Maloven would tell you that.”

Makarva’s expression changed subtly. The captain sighed.

“He’s dead, Dash. Two days ago. He was the oldest man I’ve known in my entire life as a Xalya.”

Dashvara remained silent. He could not feel quite sad because, all in all, Maloven had had a relatively good and very long life. ‘The Eternal Bird flies with dignity but always ends up landing’, he thought. He only regretted not having had time to speak with the shaard to thank him. He swallowed hard. The words he had just pronounced suddenly seemed to him of a very black humor.

“I never quite understood his Eternal Bird,” he murmured at last.

He looked back at his brothers and smiled.

“I just remembered what he told me about petals. ‘It’s not the feathers that are important, but the strength that sustains them’. Something like that.” He paused, dizzy, and murmured, “May His Eternal Bird rest in peace. I will meditate on his words while I sleep.” He closed his eyes, breathed in and added, “I will try to stay alive. I promise you that.”

“Come on, get out,” Atasiag Peykat’s soft voice suggested. “I will take care of him as if he were my own son.”

Dashvara heard footsteps and then the captain’s husky voice telling His Eminence:

“The Xalyas thank you.”

When the living room fell silent, Dashvara opened his eyes and clutched the wooden eagle to his chest. Atasiag kindly covered him with a blanket, sat down in an armchair with a book, crossed his legs and gave Dashvara a slight nod.

“Sleep easy, my friend. I will watch over your dreams,” he promised him.

Dashvara closed his eyes again, exhausted. He thought of telling the federate that next time he shouldn’t bother to pay for a coffin and a Cilian priest, but he fell asleep before he could open his mouth.

When he woke up, they put him in a bed in Atasiag’s library, and for the rest of the day all Dashvara did was sleep and try to swallow water and food. Atasiag spent hours writing scrolls at his desk or reading books in his chair. Tsu came regularly to check the pulse of the Xalya and to probe him with endarsic spells; at the fifth appearance of the drow, Dashvara said to him:

“So? Am I ready to be buried?”

The drow watched him, completed his spell and shook his head.

“Not quite,” he replied. “If you keep sleeping, maybe your lungs will eventually heal. I don’t see any traces of red snake venom anymore. Hopefully, you’ve managed to get rid of it completely by losing so much blood. I don’t know, honestly: your illness is incomprehensible.”

Dashvara scanned him, and after a hesitation, he whispered:

“You always thought I would end up dead, didn’t you?”

The drow’s red eyes reflected the answer better than any words.

“I wasn’t giving you more than a few months,” he admitted. He glanced inexpressively at Atasiag Peykat, sitting at his desk, before adding, “I was waiting for your guarantee to run out so I could talk to His Eminence with the certainty that… that he wouldn’t turn you over to the Council if he found out you were sick.” He pouted. “In any case, I didn’t have much hope that other doctors could do anything for you either,” he admitted. “I had the same education as they did at the University, and from the beginning, I saw that your condition was hardly fixable. I didn’t even think to check your energies when they said you were dead. I was so… convinced. The Yordark doctor must have thought your energies were decaying naturally. I was a fool not to check them.” He gave him a soothing look as he resumed, “But, now, things may have changed. I don’t know why, but your condition doesn’t seem so critical anymore.”

Dashvara continued to look at him, trying to guess if he was being sincere with him. He thought about asking him, but restrained himself. He preferred to believe him.

“Good. Then you’ll have to put up with the Lord of the Steppe for a while longer,” he smiled.

Tsu smiled back and handed him an object.

“What is it?” Dashvara asked, curious. It looked like a silver coin, but it was not stamped with the usual Diumcilian or Dazbonian seals, but fashioned with the profile of a crowned elven woman in the center.

While helping him to put the strap around his neck, the drow explained:

“It was given to me by the Hakassu you saw in Ariltuan. It is supposed to bring good luck.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Atasiag. The federate kept examining his scroll.

“He knows everything,” Tsu informed him. “He knows I work for the Hakassu. Or… at least that I used to work for them,” he corrected as Atasiag arched an eyebrow. “Apparently, the Yordark and Korfu plan to expedite peace negotiations with Shjak. They began by delivering Saazi, the woman you saw in Captain Faag’s tent. She was a Hakassu. And finally they allowed Queen Shaazra to ‘escape’ at last. The Queen of Shjak,” he clarified in the face of Dashvara’s bewildered look. “She is the woman who appears on the medallion. Well, she’s not technically a queen, but she’s a Hakassu, and before the federal armies captured her five years ago, she had a lot of support. From what I’ve heard, at least. The thing is that Shaazra ran away the same night I slipped away, the day of the Kondister party. Apparently… um… the escape was almost aborted because two of the drows who were supposed to help her were limping. From what I hear… uh… they ran into some savages in the middle of the night, in Homage Square.” He coughed delicately, and Dashvara bit his tongue.

Although Alta had already expressed his suspicions on the subject, Dashvara had not believed until then that Tsu was involved in any story of negotiations between Diumcili and Shjak. Or rather that he had been involved, he corrected himself, glancing curiously at Atasiag. He looked again at the medallion, and the profile of the woman drow suddenly seemed too… majestic. He cleared his throat.

“Well, that’s good.” He smiled. “Now we just have to hope that this Shaazra is a little wiser than Saazi and doesn’t intend to wipe out the Federation. If she is, I guess everyone will soon be celebrating peace. Let’s hope it lasts. Well,” he yawned. “Tell me, Tsu, how many days have passed since I was… uh… dead without being dead?”

“Four,” Tsu replied calmly. “The Yordark doctor tried to feed you first. Then we all thought you were dead and…”

“And they put me in a coffin,” Dashvara concluded with a nervous chuckle. “So when Lumon said we weren’t really alive anymore, he wasn’t that far off base.”

Tsu winced. He reached out and gently touched the Xalya’s forehead before standing up.

“I won’t bother you anymore. Sleep, brother.” He bowed to Atasiag and walked out of the library.

As soon as the door closed, the federate left his quill in the inkwell, and after a few seconds of silence, he observed:

“You look like you’re doing better.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I’m glad.”

Dashvara stroked the silver locket with distracted fingers.

“Are you glad as a friend or as a slave master, Eminence?”

As he got no answer, he turned his head to Atasiag. The federate looked pensive.

“As both,” he said at last. “I’m not as narrow-minded as you seem to think I am. But put yourself in my place, Philosopher. I was born into a well-to-do citizens’ family, with five slaves, and among them a tutor who was a staunch defender of the Diumcilian system; he even refused his freedom when my father offered it to him because he considered that he should set an example. He was a bit of a fool, I admit, but… honestly, the condition of slaves has a reason to exist, don’t you think? It’s legal and natural. Some people have to create and others have to organize. What would happen to Titiaka if everyone started to organize and no one created anything? And conversely, what would happen to Titiaka if everyone created and no one organized?”

Atasiag was more talkative than usual. Dashvara smiled.

“Chaos? Ruin? Self-destruction?” He laughed softly. “An old Shalussi once told me: the child plays, the youth works, the man orders, and the elder speaks. Obviously, the Shalussi organize themselves by age, and the federates by condition and origin. We Xalyas all organize ourselves together and create what we need without having to enslave anyone or push anyone aside. If we didn’t have such belligerent neighbors, we would have done very well,” he said.

Atasiag shrugged and stood up to stretch his legs as he replied:

“There were no more than a few hundred of you. You can’t compare. Besides,” he smiled, “don’t the Xalyas have a lord they must obey? Isn’t that a form of slavery?”

Dashvara made a face.

“You have hit the nail on the head,” he admitted. “Instead of a god we have a lord who, according to tradition, plays the role of brother and ruler.”

“That is, you,” Atasiag said, sitting down on a chair by the bed.

Dashvara bit his cheek.

“That is, me,” he finally confirmed. “According to tradition,” he repeated. “But, in all seriousness, I am too young to be a lord.”

“Ah, so, in your people, there are also restrictions according to age,” Atasiag ironically said.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want us to play who finds the most flaws in his clan? Very well. To begin with, your clan is conquering like the Akinoas, hypocritical and slave-owning like the Essimeans, and as warlike as the Shalussis. And, on top of that, its citizens entertain themselves with nonsense. I’m not saying that your whole society is nonsense, I’m just saying that a lot of it is.”

He fell silent, and suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, he paled a little. Atasiag, however, just looked thoughtful. Finally, he said:

“Your clan is proud like the Dikaksunora, conservative like the Korfu, and as fanatical as some of the Cilian priests. And, that is precisely why I like you so much,” he smiled.

Dashvara dropped the medallion on his chest. He wasn’t sure how to react to his last words, so he asked:

“Fanatic?”

“Mm,” Atasiag confirmed. “You Xalyas are fanatics of your Eternal Birds. You see? You’re already getting offended.”

“I don’t take offense,” Dashvara replied. “Explain to me. How am I a fanatic of my Eternal Bird?”

Atasiag crossed his arms, looking at him with smiling eyes.

“You, maybe not so much,” he admitted. “But most of your men are. I get the impression that their minds work as one. A Xalya is nothing without his brothers. That’s what Arvara told me a few days ago.” His dark eyes probed him. “You didn’t see them when they got the news of your death. I was afraid they would lose their minds and get out of hand. I even had them remove their weapons first, just in case. But, in the end, it was not necessary. They became as if petrified. I was afraid to lose them all, I swear. It was as if, without their lord, the clan was condemned to death and them with it. For three days they died with you in your coffin, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara held his gaze for a few seconds before turning it away to the ceiling of the library.

“If this is fanaticism, then I too am a fanatic, Eminence.”

“Don’t misinterpret me,” Atasiag said softly. “I admire the loyalty that exists between you. And I envy it. But your way of life is self-destructive. You Xalyas place your hopes in a person who represents your ‘Dahars’, and you are capable of losing your survival instinct and die for him.”

“They would have gotten over it,” Dashvara assured. “You’re exaggerating.”

Atasiag smiled, and a glint of affection passed through his eyes.

“I’m not exaggerating. You should have seen them. They looked like walking corpses, if you pardon the expression. Anyway, don’t think that in Titiaka we are less sensitive to the deaths of our relatives, but we are much more… individualistic. You people are like a hive of bees.”

Dashvara relaxed and smiled.

“Thank you. That’s the best compliment I’ve heard in a long time. Listen to this story, Eminence,” he said suddenly. “We used to tell it to the children in our people. One day, a lone wolf meets a pack of other wolves and learns that they are looking for a cub lost on the steppe. He is curious and follows them for a long time, until he asks them, ‘Are you never going to give up, brothers?’ An old wolf approaches him and answers, ‘we have been looking for our son for five years, but we do not give up, because our heart tells us that he is still alive, and we do not abandon our own’. Then the lone wolf understands that he is the one they were looking for. He feels moved by the constancy and love his pack has shown him, and he decides to say goodbye to his solitary life, realizing that life is much better when you do good deeds for your brothers.” He smiled and concluded, “We Xalyas give everything for our clan and our Dahars. We are brothers, we have confidence in ourselves, and we always remain dignified. Dignity, trust, and brotherhood,” he murmured. “That doesn’t sound like such a self-destructive way of life to me. Maybe a little proud and stubborn. But it’s our way of being.”

Atasiag shook his head with a deeply pensive pout.

“Thank you for the tale.” He smiled, stood up, and joked, “I’d better let you sleep, or you’ll end up converting me into a Xalya.”

Dashvara snorted, amused.

“I don’t convert anyone, Eminence. I am only a philosopher.”

Atasiag surprised him when he briefly bowed his head to him. He tidied up his desk a bit and then walked out of the library with several rolls of parchment. Dashvara smiled.

I don’t know if you’ll convert into a Xalya, federate, but your Eternal Bird is probably more open than I thought. He yawned and let his eyelids close by themselves.