84. The Heart of the Steppe

The first light of the next day caught the Xalyas fast asleep by the fence of the paddock. The Essimeans had offered to spend the night in various houses in the city, but they had refused the offer. It was much better to sleep on the ground with their horses and brothers than divided up in Essimean houses, even if they had “stoves”, and everything else they wanted. The Ragails had spent the night on the veranda of the building, only a few dozen steps away.

Dashvara yawned as he sat up. Sirk Is Rhad was chewing his lunch while keeping a keen eye on his surroundings. He joined him, rubbing his icy hands. If only they could have brought back those strange warm energies that populated the island of Matswad!

His brothers were already stretching, and the little camp was alive with voices. Makarva and Zamoy took advantage of the free time to play a quick game of xalyans, Miflin was dreamily consulting his dictionary and occasionally wandering his eyes over the steppe landscape, Lumon was sharpening daggers… Everyone was busy there as they were at the Border, and yet nothing could hide the general inner turmoil.

When Captain Djamin appeared, they were all ready to set out, that is if they were to go anywhere that day. The Ragail confirmed it by saying:

“His Excellency will resume the journey in one hour. Be ready.”

“We already are,” Dashvara assured, stepping out of the paddock. “So we’re going straight to Aralika?”

Djamin nodded.

“If we keep up our pace, we’ll get there by nightfall.” He glanced critically at the steppian warriors and added, “By the way, I heard the Aïgstia tunnel didn’t collapse. The Essimeans have already sent workers to clear the area. As you can see, it hasn’t been that catastrophic, lord of the Xalyas.”

Amusement was in his voice. Dashvara rolled his eyes without answering, and turning his back on him, the Ragail captain walked away to his men. When they resumed their journey, an hour and a half later, they were escorted by a patrol of Essimean warriors, among whom was Ashiwa of Essimea. They were beginning to be a large group, and dangerously divided. Dashvara bet that more than one Xalya imagined himself flying his horse and galloping off to the north-east. But they couldn’t, because they owed Kuriag a favor, because the other warriors would have killed more than one during the escape, and because their lord hadn’t ordered them to flee.

The steppe in this region was covered with green grass, and about noon, they began to see more huts, more herds, more shepherds. A storm passed to the north, but it did not affect them: the black clouds moved away, swiftly, towards the north-east. They left, however, a muddy land which the riders reached when the sun was already tilting noticeably to the west. Dashvara doubted that they could reach Aralika before the sun disappeared.

A strange mist enveloped them now, and with the increasing darkness, it gave the advance of the party an unearthly touch. Not a whisper could be heard, only the hoofs of the horses, their breaths, and the breathing of some sixty souls.

“It smells like death,” Api said suddenly.

That day, he was traveling on his own mount, a horse loaned by Ashiwa, fortunately quite peaceful, as the young demon had no idea how to steer a horse.

A slight shiver ran through Dashvara’s body as he heard this. Asmoan repeated:

“Death?”

The boy confirmed, swallowing:

“Death.”

Dashvara perceived nothing but a strong smell of wet earth and horses. He exchanged a worried glance with Makarva and heard Zamoy muttering behind him in Oy’vat:

“It must be the Essimeans. They stink.”

Night fell, and they lit lanterns, but those barely shone through the mist. At last, they heard halt! in front of the procession, they stopped their horses, and Zorvun went quickly to inquire. He returned saying:

“We stop here for the night. We still have about three hours of riding to get to Aralika. So says this Essimean snake.”

“We could be two-hundred paces from the city, and we wouldn’t know it,” Sashava growled, digging his crutches into the mud as he scanned the dense shadows. “They could kill us like dogs if they wanted.”

“And all because the Titiaka wants to see a damn tower,” Orafe the Grumpy grumbled, in a bad mood.

They set up for the night. It was not an easy task to set up the tents in the foggy darkness, and even less to find a place where they would not get completely bogged down. They took advantage of the excuse of the mud to move their camp a few steps further away from the Ragails’. A relative silence reigned. And Dashvara, lying on his long cloak, was meditating.

There were three hours left to reach Aralika, and three days to reach the lands of the Honyrs at a good pace. Most of the horses had steppe blood, they were robust, they had unbeatable stamina, and even after a day’s journey, they could have continued for hours.

Kuriag had ignored his proposal to put the most vulnerable Xalyas out of the Essimean’s reach. If he had at least summoned him to his tent to ease his concerns, if he had at least given him arguments, but no: the Legitimate was too busy talking with Ashiwa of Essimea and Asmoan of Gravia to pay him any attention. Too busy, or afraid to confront Dashvara and his stepfather? Both, perhaps.

In any case, Kuriag’s silence and Aralika’s proximity heightened Dashvara’s doubts. He mentally replayed his options: he could stand up and demand to speak with the Legitimate, he could betray him and flee with his brothers, he could remain loyal and enter the city of Todakwa praying that no harm would come. Or he could also do a combination of these three options.

Restless, his heart beating faster than usual, he muttered:

“Tah?”

The shadow was back in his bag. He looked over. In the darkness, even from a few feet away, Dashvara could barely make him out.

‘What is it, Dash?’ Tah asked.

Dashvara moistened his lips.

“Could you get a message to my brothers without anyone noticing?” he whispered.

Tahisran hissed low.

‘Of course!’ he assured, puzzled. ‘What message?’

Dashvara breathed in and said in a whisper:

“This one: stay calm, keep acting natural. Halfway through the first watch, will leave here heading east, then north,” he breathed in and listed, “Sinta, Myhrain, Watsy, Shkarah, Dwin, Aligra, Maef, Zamoy, Atok, Morzif, Shivara, Atsan Is Fadul and Shokr Is Set. If anyone protests, tell them it’s an order.”

For a moment, the shadow remained silent, taken aback.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ he asked at last.

Dashvara sighed.

“I don’t know. But, anyway, we are so few in number that a few more or less warriors… What difference does it make? We just need to make sure the Ragails don’t notice anything until dawn.”

Tahisran nodded mentally, hesitating.

‘What about the Titiaka? He’ll get angry.’

Dashvara winced.

“I will deal with that when the time comes.”

And so they did as he said. Tahisran was the hero of the escape. He spread the word, sedated the Ragails’ horses, and within two hours the imminent escape seemed to be well underway. The fact that Zorvun had made no objection had comforted Dashvara more than he would have admitted. He knew the escape would have consequences, it would degrade their relationship with the Legitimate, and it would put the remaining Xalyas in a bad position… Still, it seemed preferable to him than bringing the entire clan into the middle of Aralika without even informing the Honyrs that their two peoples shared the same Eternal Bird.

Finally, the long-awaited hour arrived, and yet Dashvara did not give the order. It must have been close to midnight, and Yira still did not appear. He had seen her enter Kuriag and Lessi’s tent to have dinner with them. Dashvara hadn’t been surprised, as she and Lessi were good friends and often chatted with each other. However, her absence was spoiling his plans. He had planned to ask her to leave too. Nervously, he whispered:

“Tah, can you go see what she’s doing?”

The shadow didn’t need him to explain who he was talking about: it moved away, invisible in the shadows. And after a moment, he returned, whispering mentally:

‘She’s coming.’

Indeed, the sursha soon appeared and lay down beside Dashvara, whispering in good humor:

“What are you up to?”

Dashvara cleared his throat quietly and explained. Despite the almost complete darkness, he felt his naâsga’s small body tense up in his arms. She replied:

“No way. I’m staying. And I don’t know if I’m quite convinced by this escape. You yourself once said that dividing the clan was never a good idea.”

“This time, it’s about splitting it up to unite with the Honyrs, naâsga,” Dashvara argued. There was a silence, and he admitted, “I would feel much calmer if you went with them. It would only be a few days. Don’t worry, the Mark of Kuriag will protect us in Aralika. No one will dare to come after us. I just can’t abandon the Titiaka like this. If I stay, he will see my willingness to return his favor, I am sure of it. You yourself know him, and you know Lessi.” As he heard the sursha’s umpteenth sigh, he assured, “Really, naâsga, I will do nothing absurd. You know me.”

Yira breathed out softly.

“Precisely.”

Dashvara kissed her forehead. Everything was so dark that he dared to remove her veil. For a moment, Yira responded to his hug without saying a word. Then she drew back slightly and whispered:

“Are you sure you want me to go, Dash?”

Dashvara felt his heart clench, and he hugged his naâsga more tightly before whispering:

“Yes. Please. The Honyrs are our only hope. Tell them that Dashvara of Xalya forgives their past sins. You are the lady of the Xalyas. They will listen to you.”

Yira sighed.

“If you say so…”

For a long silence, neither of them made any move to pull away of each other. Finally, Yira put her veil back on and whispered:

“Do you… do you think Todakwa is holding a grudge against you because of who you are?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I have far more reason to hate him, but fear not, naâsga: I am not going to throw myself into the lion’s mouth. I’m only going to get a closer look at him, and, as I’m well leashed, that snake won’t bother to bite me.” His bantering tone broke, and he swallowed as he confessed, “Oh, Liadirlá, I don’t want you to go.”

He was already revising his plan when, with a serene voice, Yira whispered:

“Our Eternal Birds fly together… but you’re right. Maybe I can help more by going to the Honyrs. I’ll help the others hide with my spells and…” The sursha fell silent and ran a gentle hand over Dashvara’s bearded cheek, whispering, “Don’t you dare die, lord of the steppe.”

Dashvara smiled.

“I will dare some day, I guess. But not for a hundred years, if that is possible,” he joked. He kissed her hand and added in a whisper, “Take care, naâsga. Know that my Eternal Bird is with you. We will meet again soon,” he promised.

His naâsga stepped aside gently, and for a moment, they both listened to the silence of the camp. Then he gave the signal, Tahisran transmitted the order, and the flight began. With an anxious heart, Dashvara saw confused figures rise and move away one by one. He closed his eyes and listened. Even the horses were quiet, thanks in part to Tahisran and Yira who helped muffle the noise with harmonic spells. A few minutes later, when Dashvara could hear nothing, he opened his eyes again. He saw almost complete darkness, interrupted only by the faint lights of lanterns in the mist. No one raised the alarm. He smiled. In the end, the Xalyas may be as silent and treacherous as the Essimeans.

He closed his eyes, letting all the air out of his lungs. He spent a long time calculating how far the fugitives could travel before the sun rose. Would they have time to leave the Essimean lands? Would they find the Honyrs? Would they run into a band of hungry red nadres before then? Finally, exhausted, he lectured himself, chastising himself for needlessly rehashing the same concerns, he focused on his breathing and drifted into a restless sleep. He dreamed. He was back in Titiaka, Faag Yordark’s black face appeared, and he was challenging him to a duel. Exasperated, without taking out his two swords, Dashvara turned his back to the Titiaka and discovered with amazement a huge and massive creature standing in front of him. He roared: Brizziaaa! Immediately, he felt dizzy and sweaty. The earth danced before his eyes. He lost his balance. His naâsga helped him to get back on his feet, she cast a spell full of butterflies of light, and the brizzia became smaller and smaller until it became a simple little monster the size of a cat. Dashvara smiled dreamily. Thank you, naâsga…

A sharp pain in his side woke him up.

“Get up!” a voice barked.

Dashvara blinked and instinctively put his hands up to protect himself. It was no use. Several figures shook him and dragged him to the ground before he even vaguely understood that what was happening was no longer a dream.

When the Ragails stopped dragging him, he found himself before Kuriag Dikaksunora’s tent, unarmed and muddy, with the Legitimate looking down at him in dismay.

In my opinion, Dash, you should have run too…

He tried to sit up, but the firm hand gripping his neck prevented him from rising. He cleared his throat.

“If you will let me explain, Excellency…”

He received a blow on the head from one of the Ragails. He fell silent. Kuriag’s expression had now closed and expressed only disdain.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“There’s nothing to explain,” he replied in a dry, slightly shaky voice. “You didn’t keep your word, Dashvara of Xalya. My father would have beheaded you right here without hesitation.” He paused. “Which of you drugged the Ragail mounts?” The other Xalyas boiled inwardly, surrounded by both the Titiaka guards and the Essimeans. None answered. Watched by all, Kuriag tried not to lose his temper and ordered in a firm voice, “Bind the hands of this warrior.” And as he saw that Dashvara opened his mouth, he added, “And gag him.”

The mist had lifted, and the sky was filled with golden and pink hues. Dashvara sighed but did not resist when the Ragails tied his hands and gagged him without regard. Kuriag was talking heatedly with Captain Djamin. They had drifted apart a bit, but Dashvara could tell that Kuriag was blaming Djamin for the lack of vigilance of his men. How on earth could fourteen people and their respective mounts have left the camp without being seen or heard by the sentries? Djamin was confused, trying to explain himself… Dashvara smiled behind his gag. The great Ragail Captain, fooled by savage slaves! Who would have imagined it? But his smile quickly turned into a strained grimace. He hoped that Kuriag would realize that, if twenty Xalyas had remained in the camp, it was because they still intended to serve him until they had paid their debt. He hadn’t broken his word. Or at least not completely, Dashvara corrected honestly.

To his indignation, Kuriag sent four Ragails after the fugitives, borrowing the horses from the Xalyas. They stole Sunrise and left him, bound and gagged, on a numbed horse. They resumed the march towards Aralika. It was a sunny day, and Dashvara estimated that Yira and the others were already more than thirty miles away. He doubted that the Ragails would find the fugitives, even with the help of the Essimeans. But one never knew…

They saw the tip of the Tower of the Eternal Bird long before they reached Aralika, which lay at the end of an endless grassy slope. Here and there grew a few shrubs, and in the distance, scattered trees could be seen on the banks of the Fadul River, the longest river in the steppe. It was the same river that passed near the Xalya Dungeon, except that in Essimea it got wider, and in summer, it did not dry up almost completely as in Xalya.

The city awakened a sense of wonder in Dashvara. As a patrolman on the steppe, he had never travelled beyond his own land. That was why he had been amazed when he first saw Rocavita. Dazbon had struck him with its size and labyrinthine streets, Titiaka with its organization and beauty. Aralika impressed him with its arrogance.

Everything was made of white stone from the mountains of Padria, and so was the Feather, the Tower of the Eternal Bird, which stood wise and elegant, dominating the city with its centuries-old stones.

Kark Is Set, Dashvara muttered inwardly, fascinated. The Heart of the Steppe. That was the name the Ancient Kings had given to their main city. It was said that the Feather that stood there had been built over the remains of Nabakaji, the first shaard and the one who had theoretically spoken first of the Eternal Bird. Inside, centuries of knowledge had been accumulated, and from the top of the needle, according to the books, one could see the entire steppe. Dashvara suddenly felt like checking it out.

Let Kuriag sentence me to death if he will, but not until I have seen that tower. Liadirlá! I must see with my own eyes what the Ancient Kings saw!

Emotion overwhelmed him. He had almost forgotten that he was bound, gagged and watched by several Ragails.

The closer they got, the more it seemed to him that the city was growing in size. There were huge paddocks with steppe horses, patrols on the outskirts, busy slaves, vegetable gardens, cobbled paths, and even a busy market. They walked around the market under the curious eyes of the inhabitants and arrived in front of a sumptuous building, decorated with columns and statues. A whole procession had come out to welcome the Legitimate of Titiaka. A man wrapped in a large dark blue cloak stood at the top of the staircase that led to the small palace. Dashvara’s gaze remained riveted on this tattooed face. He had never seen him, but it was easy to guess that this pale man between the ages was Todakwa. The King of Death.

A hymn rose in the Galka language to welcome the illustrious guest. Todakwa came down the steps with a broad smile, and as Kuriag came to the ground, he greeted him with apparent joy. His voice was soft, and Dashvara, standing almost at the back of the procession, could only catch a few scattered words.

So this is what you’ve made of Kark Is Set, Dashvara muttered inwardly, surveying the surroundings. A modern, active, trading city. I’d congratulate you, Essimean snake, if I didn’t know you’d achieved it at the cost of blood and freedom of innocent people.

Kuriag eventually followed Todakwa inside the palace, along with Lessi, two Ragails, and… surprisingly, he also asked Zorvun and Arvara to accompany him. They promptly moved the others into an adjoining building. More than one Essimean servant glanced curiously at Dashvara as he walked, surrounded by Ragails, to a spacious room filled with straw mattresses. They did not remove the gag, and Dashvara made no attempt to remove it: he sat quietly on one of the straw mattresses and could not help but give Captain Djamin a mocking look. Captain Djamin shook his head in exasperation but made no comment: he simply ordered that no one move from there and left the building. Dashvara smiled behind his gag. He was beginning to find this Ragail sympathetic, after all. He could have chastised him personally, and Kuriag could only have approved. But, for some reason, Djamin preferred not to interfere any more than necessary.

Dashvara lay back, drumming his fingers, and his brothers saw him so still that they must have thought he was in control of the situation. If only that were true, he sighed.

Time passed. Alta helped him free his hands, but when he tried to remove the gag, Dashvara refused. He did so not so much to comply with Kuriag’s order as to avoid having to speak with his brothers about the matter. When he refused, they all exchanged knowing looks. Lumon cleared his throat.

“Are you going to stay like that all afternoon?”

Dashvara shrugged. Makarva shook his head and, rolling his eyes, said:

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dash. Come on, let me take the gag off.”

Dashvara refused again with a curt gesture, but his friend insisted, and finally, between them, Miflin and Makarva managed to take it off him.

“Come on, open your mouth, cousin!” the Poet encouraged, amused.

They tried to force the rag out of his mouth like a stick out of a dog’s mouth. Dashvara glared at them. He huffed and spat out the cloth.

“Okay,” he growled. “What do you want me to say? I did what I thought was right.”

Makarva smiled.

“We know that, Dash. And all of us here think you did the right thing, don’t we, brothers? I assure you, if the Titiaka dares to lay a hand on you, we are not going to let him.”

He patted him on the shoulder. Dashvara sighed.

“Unless I tell you to let him, I hope.”

Makarva winced, and he wasn’t the only one. Ged confessed:

“That’s asking too much of us, boy. We’re not going to let them punish you like a common thief.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and replied:

“In Titiaka, Lanamiag Korfu once gave me a beating.”

They huffed.

“It’s not the same thing,” Shurta interjected. “Back in Titiaka, we didn’t even have the hope of escape. Here, we have it.”

The Xalyas agreed. Dashvara observed:

“We still owe that Titiaka, I remind you.”

“Bah,” Orafe growled. “If it weren’t for his father, we’d never have found ourselves off the steppe. I see his generosity more as compensation.”

His words generated smiles and a wave of approval. Dashvara shook his head, unconvinced. It wasn’t Kuriag’s fault that his father had been the greatest slaver on the Pilgrim Ocean coast.

Three Ragails were left in the room, and they kept glancing at them with frowns, annoyed that they didn’t understand what they were saying. Dashvara ignored them for the rest of the afternoon. He tried to take a nap, since he had hardly slept last night. When he awoke, he joined Makarva, Miflin and Kodarah in playing katutas. The return of Captain Zorvun and Arvara surprised them in the midst of their celebration: Makarva had lost.

“Well, well!” Zorvun said, as he advanced into the room. “I see our young people have made good use of their time.”

“Like children,” Sedrios the Old assured with a mocking smile from a corner of the room.

“So?” Dashvara said, ceasing to tease Mak. “I take it you already chopped off Todakwa’s head, right?”

The captain rolled his eyes.

“I’ll leave that honor to you, I think. I’m sure you’ll do better than me. I bring good news,” he declared, “the Ragails have not found our brothers and sisters, and I believe that at this time they have a good chance of getting out of Essimean lands safely.”

Sighs of relief were heard, but Dashvara restrained himself from singing victory too soon. The captain added:

“By the way, Dash, my son-in-law wants to see you.” Nodding, Dashvara rose to his feet. Before he left, Zorvun stopped him for a moment. His eyes shone as he whispered, “Kuriag is on our side, son. But he’s a Titiaka. He has a reputation to uphold. Show him that you are still loyal to him and hopefully this story won’t go much further.”

But it’ll go a little further, Dashvara understood. He nodded again.

“I guess he’s still in a bad mood.”

Zorvun grimaced as he rubbed his beard.

“That boy seems incapable of getting angry for good. He’s rather depressed, I’d say. But the idea of visiting the Tower tomorrow has lifted his spirits a bit. He looks more Xalya than we do,” he joked, and he encouraged him, “Go on, go see him.”

Dashvara went out, and an Essimean servant led him to Kuriag’s chambers: they were just next door. Before knocking on the door, the servant hesitated and asked, with eager eyes:

“Is it true that you are Dashvara of Xalya, the last lord of the steppe?”

Dashvara looked at him. The servant was an eastern steppian. A Shalussi, perhaps. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He pouted.

“With any luck, I won’t be the last,” he replied.

He knocked firmly on the door himself. There was silence. And then a voice said:

“Come in.”

Dashvara entered and closed behind him before glancing around the room. It was luxurious. Nothing like the rooms in the Xalya Dungeon. From a nearby room, Lessi and Hezae’s voices could be heard. With his usual peaceful and humble expression, Zraliprat moved silently around the living room tidying up his master’s things. Dashvara sometimes wondered if the boy had ever thought of quitting being a slave. He couldn’t remember ever hearing him say more than a few words in a row. He met the boy’s dark eyes and thought he detected a glint of reproach. “My master is in this state because of you,” he seemed to say. Dashvara turned his head towards Kuriag. Sitting on a couch in front of a large, lit fireplace, the elf was watching the fire, looking absorbed. He looked even younger than he was, Dashvara thought.

He approached, hesitantly, in silence. His boots soiled the carpet, and he made an apologetic pout. Gosh. He stopped. Kuriag still said nothing. Clearly, Dashvara was going to have to break the silence. He opened his mouth, still thinking of what he could say to him. Then he saw on a small table his belt with the two swords the Ragails had taken from him. He reached out a hand and took the scabbard of Siranaga’s black sword. Kuriag gasped and widened his eyes in fright. Perhaps fearing the Xalya lord had gone mad, Zraliprat prepared to scream, but Kuriag raised a hand to stop him. Suppressing a smile, Dashvara toyed with the weapon, saying with deep respect:

“This sword belonged to Siranaga, the last Ancient King of the Steppe. And it’s still in as good condition as if it had been forged yesterday,” he muttered, half-drawing it. He sheathed it again with a sharp gesture. “On its blade, it is inscribed ‘atsan is fadul’, Life Saver. A strange name for a weapon, isn’t it?”

He met Kuriag Dikaksunora’s intense gaze, and after another silence during which only the crackling of the fire could be heard, he cleared his throat, left the sword, and went to crouch by the fireplace. A pleasant warmth gradually enveloped him. He breathed in.

“I assure you that my brothers and I will pay our debt far more efficiently knowing that some of our people are now safe, riding to the lands of the Honyrs. I did as my Eternal Bird dictated. I suppose it was a mistake not to tell you before. I assure you I did not mean to mock you, and I am sorry I betrayed your trust. I have damaged your reputation. The Essimeans probably laughed behind your back when they saw that you had such poor control of your slaves.” He gave a sarcastic pout and concluded truthfully, “I am willing to restore your reputation by any means necessary. I’d even be willing to do a lot more if… you helped me, Kuriag Dikaksunora.”

The firelight danced across the young elf’s startled face. He turned his head to the black sword on the small table and articulately repeated:

“Help you? Isn’t that what I’ve been doing since I bought you, Dashvara of Xalya?”

Dashvara’s face flushed. Liadirlá, this foreigner was telling the truth. He exhaled loudly.

“You did help us,” he admitted. “However… my people are still slaves to Todakwa. Essimea’s wealth is based on trade with Diumcili, mainly on trade relations with your family, right? You have influence. And, I, for one, would be willing to do anything to get my people free and safe away from here again.” He had raised his voice fervently, and he controlled it when he added, “We can reach an agreement. Is that too much to ask?”

Kuriag had wrinkled his forehead slightly, puzzled. He shook his head.

“Assuming I am able to convince Todakwa to free your people, what would you give me in return? Your loyalty?”

His voice was full of irony and disillusionment. Dashvara watched him for a moment and answered with a question:

“Tell me, why are you so interested in the Eternal Bird?”

Kuriag blinked and adopted a pensive expression.

“Well… I suppose that, if it weren’t for Maloven, I would never have taken such an interest in It.” He bit his lip and confessed, “I feel that my life has always been dictated by absurd goals. I am a slave to the titiaka tradition, and sometimes that is little better than being a worker. Especially when one is not drawn to parties, business, gambling…” He shrugged, and his eyes sparkled. “When I got to know the shaard Maloven, I realized that the world was a much better place than I thought. Every time I went to the University and passed people on the street, I thought: every person has a life, thoughts, character, dreams… And I thought that some people poorer than me, or even slaves, managed to be happier. And others were less happy. And I wanted to help them. To ask them what a poor fool like me could do to make their dreams come true.” He rolled his eyes. “But I always ended up giving up. Out of cowardice, I guess. And also because there probably wasn’t much I could do for them anyway. And maybe I was wrong.” He paused and nodded to himself, “That’s what stuck with me the most from Maloven’s teachings. I learned to join my own aspirations with those of others. The Eternal Bird… is a set of concepts. A mold that adapts so that a group of sajits can live together. And that is also what I admire about your people, Dashvara of Xalya. Its diversity and its unity. Its tolerance. Its trust. That’s why I’ve decided to help you. I want your people, the people of Maloven, to be free. I want all people to be free.”

Dashvara stood looking at him, deeply impressed. Kuriag swallowed and blushed.

“When you put it that way, it sounds idealistic and conceited, doesn’t it? Maloven was capable of setting a much more solemn tone to his…”

He fell silent suddenly when he saw the steppe lord quickly pass a hand over his eyes. At the stunned expression of the Legitimate, Dashvara huffed, made a sudden gesture and stood up.

“May the Liadirlá bless you, Kuriag,” he uttered in a husky voice. “If there’s anything I can… do to keep you from thinking I’m an ungrateful savage, you only have to ask.”

The young Titiaka hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it again, then stood up in turn, nervous.

“How about…uh…how about, for starters, you let me know what your decisions are first?”

Dashvara smiled and bowed.

“By my Eternal Bird and that of my people, I swear it. Whenever it’s possible.”

Kuriag nodded and said, as if to justify himself:

“This morning, you put me in an awkward position with the Ragails. I tried not to give away many details, but… I bet Garag has already sent a carrier pigeon to my mother to explain everything.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“Garag?”

“Oh. A distant cousin,” the Titiaka explained. “He’s settled as a diplomat in the port of Ergaika. That’s about seventy miles from here, and he decided to travel to Aralika to welcome and congratulate me. It has been years since I last saw him. You wouldn’t like him,” he observed with a half-embarrassed, half-amused pout.

Dashvara felt a chill. Ergaika? He remembered hearing the name, but he thought it was just a coastal village in the southwest, not an actual port. He cleared his throat.

“And I suppose he came with more Ragails.”

Kuriag rolled his eyes.

“Actually, no. Garag hires his own men. They’re Ryscodran mercenaries, for the most part.”

He fell silent then continued in a hesitant tone:

“Tomorrow, I’m going to visit the Tower with Asmoan and… I’d like you to come with me.”

Dashvara nodded and tried to conceal his keen impatience with a friendly yet mocking pout.

“As you wish, Excellency,” he replied.

He bowed and moved to retrieve the swords, but to his surprise, Kuriag beat him to it and examined Siranaga’s sword curiously. Dashvara waited patiently. Then the elf returned the weapons to him.

“Where did you get it?”

Dashvara smiled.

“It was Atasiag who gave it to me. His Eminence always surprises.”

Kuriag had frowned. Meditatively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large golden key. He shook his head.

“Do you know what this is?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“A key.”

The Legitimate smiled broadly.

“And a very special one. It’s a relic. An enchanted object. Asmoan lent it to me to examine. It has inscriptions in Oy’vat. Asmoan believes Siranaga fled to Agoskura with it two hundred years ago, and he believes the door is in the Tower. We haven’t mentioned anything about it to the Essimean leader yet. Perhaps I should.”

Dashvara stood there staring at the key in fascination. He hesitated and held out a hand.

“May I?”

Kuriag left him the key, and Dashvara examined it. It was particularly large, with a round ring full of patterns and inscriptions. There was a strong energy inside.

“Lessi says the signs are ancient Oy’vat,” Kuriag interjected after a silence. “Asmoan deciphered it. Apparently, it says…” He reached into his other pocket, unfolded a sheet and read, “Key to the Chamber of the Eternal Bird. Then come single words: Knowledge, Death, Love, Star, and Shadow. Asmoan says this could refer to the legend of the Five Lost Shaards.”

Dashvara looked up abruptly, more and more amazed. It was said that these five shaards had gone to look for a star and had never returned, but…

“How the devil does Asmoan know of this legend? Is there a library in Agoskura dedicated to the Ancient Kings?”

The very idea seemed absurd to him. Why would Agoskurians be interested in the history of a distant people who had disappeared two centuries ago?

“I don’t know,” Kuriag admitted. “Asmoan said he had books that talked about the subject. But he didn’t bring them on the trip.”

Dashvara began to half understand. If the Ancient Kings had been demons and if they were a small community, it was logical to assume that their history had been picked up by others of their kind, whether or not they were descendants. Hence the interest of Asmoan. That is, if one considered that the Ancient Kings had truly been demons.

He shook his head in confusion and handed the key back to the Legitimate.

“You know, Excellency? I think it would be safer not to tell Todakwa about this. It would surprise me if he allowed a secret chamber to be opened in the presence of foreigners.”

Kuriag nodded.

“You’re right.”

There was silence. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Since I said I’d consult with you first… I’d feel more comfortable if we posted two Xalyas outside your door. I suppose Todakwa has no interest in anything happening to you, but… just in case, you get what I mean. Never turn your back on an Essimean,” he quoted in a wise tone.

Kuriag smiled and nodded, accepting the proposal. With it, implicitly, he accepted the Xalyas’ loyalty once again. Dashvara bowed with genuine respect.

“Good evening, Excellency.”

He went out, and when he came back into the great room and saw his brothers turning to him anxiously, he smiled. Did they expect him to come back half-fainted and with a bloody back? He said:

“Forty lashes and not a scratch.”

His lie drew wide smiles. Sitting down on his pallet, he added cheerfully to Zorvun:

“Your daughter has married a true Xalya, Captain. Our good master is determined to help us free our people.” He yawned and concluded, “And, hopefully, thanks to him, the lord of the steppe will be able to continue lazing around and philosophizing.” He smiled, “Long live the foreigners.”