55. Light butterflies

He suffered a crisis of pride similar to that of Zorvun and decided to tell his brothers as little as possible about what had happened in the house of Sheroda. He also tried to conceal Lanamiag Korfu’s beating, because the image of a beaten lord was rather incompatible with Xalya dignity; however, when they returned to the dormitory after dinner and he lay on his stomach, Makarva treacherously lifted his tunic and asked:

“Atasiag?”

Dashvara glared at him, and after growling some imprecations about respect for privacy, he was obliged to tell them about what happened and to accept that Tsu apply one of the ointments he had gone to buy that afternoon. Then, so that they would stop complaining against the citizens, he thought of informing them that he had banished Fayrah from the clan, but he reconsidered and decided to wait. In his heart, he still hoped that Fayrah would rectify or at least ask for forgiveness for having thrown so much scorn on the Xalyas.

Makarva pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Are you really going to try to sleep with all the noise the citizens are making? Don’t you want to play a game of katutas? I’m sure that will put you in a better mood.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“My mood is perfectly fine.” He listened to the music, the shouts and laughter coming at them from the main building of the house. Everything indicated that the citizens were having a great time. “It’s okay,” he agreed, approaching the checkerboard. “One game. But we’re playing seriously,” he warned.

“Seriously?” Makarva complained.

Dashvara laughed.

“Of course we’re not, come on, I was kidding!”

With mocking laughter, Zamoy, Boron, and Lumon took their places around the board. With five players, this was a promising game. They all rolled up their sleeves as part of the ritual to prove that they were going to play fair.

Baldy was rolling the dice when Miflin asked:

“Tell me, Dash. Can I borrow your dictionary?”

Dash nodded, raising an eyebrow.

“Looking for inspiration?”

Miflin merely smiled before sitting down by the candelabra with the volume in his lap.

“Ah,” Zamoy smiled. “He has to think about his next ode in Uncle Serl’s honor, I guess. Well, well, I rolled the dice. A five and a six. Try to do better! It’s your turn, Mak.”

Makarva got two sixes. That damned man was not only a good player, he also had the luck of a thousand demons. Zamoy grumbled for half the game, but then his face brightened up when he saw that his pawns stood up like champions. At one point, Makarva pulled one of those masterful tricks he was so good at, which was to fool them all into thinking he had only pawns in his stock of pieces. Dashvara slapped his forehead.

“But where did you get that queen, Mak!”

“Did you steal it from my storeroom?” Zamoy asked suspiciously.

Makarva gave him a wolfish smile.

“Think about it. It’s always been there. It’s just that I’ve been fooling you like two-month-old foals.”

“Foal yourself,” Dashvara grumbled; he recalculated his options. Boron ended up losing both of his horses, Dashvara lost half of his pieces and Zamoy lost half of his pieces. On the verge of defeat, Dashvara had only one horse left and the lord when Makarva sent an arrow at the horse. Dashvara put the lord in the middle.

“What are you doing? Killing yourself?” Makarva asked, surprised.

Dashvara smiled.

“Halfway. Roll the dice to see if he dies.”

He died. He had only one horse left, and after he had finished with Zamoy, Makarva devoured him without loss.

“Make an ode for me, Miflin, I won!” Makarva exulted.

Immersed in his dictionary, the Poet did not pay attention to him.

“What an idea, to let the lord be killed before a horse,” Zamoy scoffed.

“That’s a philosophical question, Baldy,” Dashvara replied. “Why must the lord always be the last to die? He should die first.”

Makarva winced, Lumon shook his head, and Zamoy rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“And here we are again with the Philosopher’s questions,” the latter sighed. “You want me to answer, Dash? Well, there I go. The lord mustn’t die first, because if he dies, the horses run away. It’s that simple.”

“Unless all of them are lords,” Dashvara observed with a small smile.

Makarva huffed, amused.

“Don’t play his game, Zamoy, he’ll end up messing with our heads. Miflin! How is your inspiration coming along?”

This time, the Poet looked up from his dictionary.

“Listen to this,” he said and intoned:

At the aurora, azure and abyssal,

Absent-minded and appeased,

The ascetic, aloof animal,

leaned on the amber apple tree.

Dashvara laughed with the others.

“I see you’re still on the first letter of the dictionary,” he observed.

Miflin smiled.

“Hey. You have to start somewhere.”

Makarva suggested another game, but it had been a long day and the older Xalyas grumbled and suggested they go to sleep. Dashvara glanced at his almost empty bag, and with his back still a little sore, he lay back on his stomach, thinking of Tahisran. During the last few days at Compassion, he had gotten used to exchanging words with him before going to sleep, and now he regretted not being able to do so. The shadow must have been very busy wandering around Titiaka.

That night, despite his fatigue, he slept very badly. He fell asleep right away, but he woke up abruptly shortly afterwards, thinking he could see behind his eyelids the golden, streaked eyes of Sheroda. ‘This man does not deserve to live…’, her voice whispered. Twice he woke up, and twice he found that the party in Atasiag’s house was not yet over. The third time, however, he found a silent night.

When I think that Atasiag saw me in this deplorable state, crying like a child…

He felt no shame, only embarrassment that Atasiag, a Diumcilian foreigner, had comforted him like a father after listening to the horrors he must have uttered without even remembering them now.

Now you don’t call him a snake, right? All in all, you’ll end up being another faithful dog like Wassag.

Lying in the darkness, Dashvara slowly wiped away his wry smile. Leaving his mat behind, he groped his way to the door, opened it and stepped out. The sky was overcast and dense darkness enveloped the night. Only the small lights of the fountain and some garlands hanging from the columns shone. There was no wind, and the air was relatively warm for a night that was already close to autumn. With a quiet walk, Dashvara crossed the courtyard and sat on the edge of the fountain, still trying to sort out his feelings. The day had been particularly full. First the Akinoas, then Zaadma, Lanamiag Korfu, Fayrah, and finally Sheroda. He might have thought that, after surviving the Border, he was immune to everything… but that was far from the truth.

You’re a bit lost, admit it. You thought you had forgotten about the Akinoas, and here they are under your nose. Then you meet Zaadma and Fayrah, you see them so happy, and you can’t help feeling abandoned, even if it’s absurd. And to top it all off, Sheroda, that monster with blue fangs, reproaches you for your worst actions without giving any validity to your justifications. And you, you feel like the worst criminal. Killing is killing, according to her: it doesn’t matter who. But wasn’t she about to kill me? Isn’t she exactly like me?

“You are cruel, Dashvara of Xalya,” Yira’s voice suddenly said.

Dashvara turned his head without flinching: he had heard her footsteps.

“How funny. You come to accuse me too, magician?”

The shadow of the Faceless One stopped in front of him.

“I take back what I said,” she said at last. “Because I don’t think you’re cruel. But you should know that your sister is crying right now because of you.”

Dashvara saw her sitting next to him in silence. He shook his head.

“Well, tell her to stop crying. Why on earth should she be crying? Tell her that I forgive her all her offenses against me and the other Xalyas. I’d tell her in person if I could.”

The light from the fountain was reflected in Yira’s eyes.

“It would be absurd for her to be sad now because of me,” Dashvara added.

Yira sighed and looked up at the dark sky.

“Fayrah is more sensitive than you seem to think, Xalya. She… regrets having spoken ill of your clan.”

Dashvara winced.

“Bah,” he smiled. “Those are just words. I’ve already told you that I forgive her. She is right to follow the path that makes her happier. Tell her I don’t feel insulted anymore. And also tell her…” he hesitated, “that she can always change her mind whenever she wants.”

Yira snorted, and Dashvara realized, surprised, that she was laughing.

“I’ll tell her,” she said. “But I doubt she’ll change her mind.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow at seeing her so sure. After a quiet silence, he asked:

“How can a person be happy knowing that everything they have, they owe it to the slaves who work for them?”

Yira seemed to ponder the answer.

“I don’t think you understand Diumcili culture,” she finally whispered. “To the Titiakas, slaves are like children or pets to be cared for and ordered around. They don’t exist without their masters, and at the same time, a citizen without slaves is nothing. Still, if it makes you feel better, Fayrah and Lessi can’t quite accept this system.”

“I should hope so,” Dashvara snorted.

“Mm.” Without quite knowing how, Dashvara knew she was smiling. After a hesitation, Yira added, “It is also true that when you see happy Titiakas every day, when you see celebrations, wealth, and poetry everywhere… you stop thinking about the workers.”

And you stop thinking about the Eternal Bird, Dashvara completed.

“I guess so,” he said, clearing his throat. He looked at her curiously. “What about you, Yira? You’re almost like a daughter to Atasiag, aren’t you? Why didn’t you choose to live like my sister does?”

For a moment, he thought Yira would get up, end the conversation, and return to her guard and her illusions. She did not, but in any case, her answer was not very explicit.

“Just because,” she said.

Dashvara rubbed his nose, both intrigued and amused.

“Um… I see. That means it’s better I keep personal questions to myself, isn’t it?”

Yira clasped her hands together in front of her, as if she felt uneasy.

“It’s not that,” she protested. “It’s just that… I’m not like Fayrah or Lessi. If I lived like her, I would feel fake. You see, just before she sold me, my mother told me: always be true to who you are. I have never been a princess. I prefer to be just Yira. And nothing more.”

“Wait a minute, wait,” Dashvara cut her off, stunned. “Your mother sold you?”

“I come from an island between Ryscodra and Skasna. In that area, people live from fishing, and there is a lot of poverty,” she explained. “It’s a paradise for slavers: they don’t even have to take out their weapons. They sold me for three bags of oats when I was eight years old.” She paused for a moment, and as Dashvara listened with interest, she added, “Fortunately, this time the slavers’ business went bad for them. Pirates boarded the ship, freed us, and took us to Matswad Island. That’s where I learned to use a saber. And that’s where I met Atasiag.”

Dashvara shook his head. Makarva would have loved this story of islands, boardings, and pirates.

“You met Atasiag Peykat on a pirate island?”

Yira looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Does this seem so strange to you? Think about it,” she muttered. “Atasiag does slow down the Master’s imports in some way, does he not?”

Dashvara huffed, incredulous.

“He hires pirates to attack Dikaksunora ships?”

“That’s right,” Yira said. “Most of the pirates in Matswad are mercenaries and have agreements with the Dream Brotherhood. Though, you have to admit that, since his trading company went bankrupt, Atasiag has less often been using pirates to counter the Master lately. I think the Korfu have changed their tactics.”

“I see,” Dashvara said, clearing his throat. He wasn’t really interested in all this, so he asked what he thought was most important: “And what do the pirates do with the freed slaves?”

“Well, logically, they take them to Matswad,” Yira muttered. “Most of them have no place to go. A lot of them become pirates.”

Dashvara shook his head and smiled sarcastically.

“Demons, so many absurd migrations, and all in all, to become pirates. A strange liberation. I only hope that the five Xalyas they led to this island are not in trouble. I know them well enough to know how they feel about bandits and such.” His face darkened. “If only I could get them out of there… Unfortunately, we have enough problems here already.”

Yira turned to him with quizzical eyes.

“What problems are you referring to?”

Dashvara frowned, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. Frankly speaking, what problems was he talking about? He was sleeping in a nice house, eating well, being near his brothers, and according to Atasiag, Sheroda would not try anything against him now. Wasn’t that wonderful? Then he noticed the dull pain he still felt in his back.

“Freedom, Yira,” he said. “That’s what I miss.”

Yira tilted her head to one side and asked gently:

“And why do you want freedom, Xalya? To go where?”

Dashvara opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally answered:

“To go to a quiet place where my brothers and I can be happy without having to obey anyone except our Eternal Bird. That’s where I want to go. Maltagwa would tend the garden, Lumon and Boron would hunt, Morzif and Ged would make their own forge, Makarva would do his makarvaries, Miflin his miflineries…” he smiled. “Everyone would have an occupation.”

“And… what would be yours?” Yira asked with obvious curiosity.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Whatever goes through my mind. Woodworking. I’m pretty good at it. I could also take care of the horses with Alta…” With a sudden impulse, he said, “I want to go back to the steppe, Yira. I want to go home. Even if it is only for my clan to die there.”

He fell silent, stunned by the passion that vibrated in his voice. A gloved hand rested briefly on his.

“I hope your dream comes true, then,” Yira said gently.

Dashvara raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Thank you.” After a silence, he smiled again and changed the subject completely. “Hey. I must admit that this afternoon, at the training, you impressed me quite a bit. Those snakes looked like they came out of a nightmare.”

“Mm,” Yira chuckled. “I noticed that, afterwards, you made a big detour to avoid me, as if I had the plague. You even looked scared.”

Dashvara smiled, frankly surprised.

“Of course I was scared. I had never seen anything like it. Is it true that the Ragails fight like you?”

“Well, they’re usually better with their weapons and a little less with harmonies,” she thought. She paused for a moment, and her eyes reflected enthusiasm as she said, “But not all harmonies are for fighting. Do you want me to show you?”

Dashvara looked at her, alarmed.

“Huh?”

Yira laughed and jumped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. She raised her hand, and suddenly, sparks flew and turned into butterflies of light. They surrounded Yira, spiraling upwards, and without warning, shot towards Dashvara. Dashvara was amazed by the small illusions, but when he saw the spiral attack him, his hands reached for the swords he didn’t have, he panicked, threw himself backwards and lost his balance. He fell right into the fountain, splashing everything and hitting the central stone block. He emerged soaked, cursing. The moths of light were gone, replaced by the natural darkness of the night.

“Oh, by Serenity, I’m sorry,” Yira stammered as she rushed toward him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

It had been nothing more than illusions. Damned illusions. Suddenly, Dashvara laughed and came out of the fountain, dripping with water and choking on his laughter.

“Even in front of a brizzia, I wouldn’t have reacted in such a stupid way,” he affirmed. “It’s nothing, I’m fine,” he assured, and blushing, he blew out a breath, running a hand through his soaked beard. “I’m just a little wet, that’s all. Eternal Bird. Can you do it again?”

Yira raised her eyebrows but nodded.

“If you don’t jump back into the fountain…”

Dashvara cleared his throat, amused, while wringing his tunic.

“I’ll try,” he promised.

Yira made her butterflies of light reappear, and this time, Dashvara let them flutter serenely around him. He stared at them, fascinated.

“They’re beautiful.” He raised a hand and passed through one without feeling anything but air. Then another one landed on his hand, and he felt a slight tickle. He gasped. “This one is real!”

Yira laughed and nodded.

“I’m just sending out contact waves so that you think this butterfly is material. But it’s not.”

Dashvara pouted, not quite understanding what she meant by “contact waves”. Magicians’ jargon, he thought.

Then the butterflies moved away, joined and merged into a silver circle that tilted and unraveled before disappearing completely.

“So what do you say?”

“Terrifying,” Dashvara murmured. That was the first adjective that came to mind. Then he added, “And beautiful. Much more beautiful than those horrible snakes you threw at me, that’s for sure. Who taught you to do such strange things?”

He thought he saw another smile, although he could not see it.

“His name was Taymed. I met him on Matswad Island. He was… a celmist. He was very old. My father brought him here two years ago because he too was very fond of him. He passed away last year. He was… very old,” she repeated as she sat back down by the low wall of the fountain.

Dashvara then thought of a steppian proverb and muttered:

“The Eternal Bird flies with dignity but always ends up landing.”

He thought of the shaard Maloven, installed at the University of Titiaka, and suddenly wished he could talk to him. He too was old. After such a long life, how should he feel, thinking he was dying so far away from his family?

“Thank you, Yira,” he suddenly blurted out.

“And… can I know why exactly?” she asked, amused.

Dashvara smiled and brushed the water of the fountain with his hand.

“For your company.”

“You already thanked me for that yesterday,” she observed.

“Mm. That’s true.” He gave her a mocking pout and added, “But a Xalya thanks as many times as he feels like.”

Suddenly he heard a creak of a door opening, and he turned to the dormitory, but the noise did not come from there. Yira sighed and walked towards the main door.

“Fayrah, Lessi…” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to him, Yira,” Fayrah’s muffled voice said. “I saw you from the balcony.” Hurried footsteps were heard, and Dashvara stood up to see Fayrah’s face appear in the midst of the darkness. She wore no makeup, and her long hair fell like a dark waterfall.

“You are much more beautiful without makeup, sister,” he said, smiling. He saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, but he did not wipe away his soothing smile. “Come on, don’t cry, sîzin…”

Fayrah clung to him, drenching him more than he already was, and she spoke in Oy’vat when she whispered:

“I’ve been unfair to you, Dash. I didn’t mean half the things I said. I mean, in a way I meant them, but I didn’t mean them that way.”

Dashvara raised his eyes to heaven, stifling an amused gasp.

“You’re not making things right, sister. But that’s okay. Like a good Xalya, I try to be wise and tolerant, and I understand that you may have a low opinion of all of us. I don’t feel insulted. Forgive me if I gave you that impression.”

“I don’t have a low opinion of you, Dash. I never said that.”

Wishing that she would stop wanting to explain herself, Dashvara kissed her on the forehead putting an end to the excuses, he moved away and greeted Lessi. This one looked as moved as Fayrah.

“I’ll go wake up your father, Lessi,” he said.

The girl’s eyes lit up, and Dashvara walked away, feeling that Fayrah and Lessi hadn’t changed all that much after all. Once in the dormitory, he walked between the straw mattresses and shook Zorvun, pulling him by the arm.

“Captain,” he whispered.

He felt him stir.

“What’s the matter, Dash?” he muttered softly. “Oh… Eternal Bird. It’s not even dawn yet. I hope you have a very good reason to wake me up.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Lessi is out in the yard.”

Immediately, the captain stretched his legs and went out with such haste that he almost woke up all the Xalyas. He crossed the courtyard in long strides and slowed down when he was only a few steps away from Lessi.

“Little one,” he murmured in his hoarse voice.

Father and daughter hesitated a bit before embracing. Smiling, Dashvara watched them, hands in his pockets, before turning to Fayrah.

“Well, sister. You must be exhausted after so much partying. You should go to sleep. You won’t cry anymore, will you?”

Fayrah huffed.

“I’m not crying.” Her eyes were bright. “I love you, brother.”

“And I love you too, sîzin.”

After a slight hesitation, Fayrah took a step toward the main door. She paused for a moment to say:

“I never betrayed my Eternal Bird. I simply followed the path that seemed best to me. And I don’t regret it.”

I do, but what can I do? Dashvara thought. He watched her until she disappeared through the door. Immediately after, he greeted Yira and went back to the dormitory to leave Lessi and the captain alone. He was not yet asleep when Zorvun returned. As he passed by his mat, the captain whispered to him:

“It’s clear, Dash, that our women have done better than we have. I’d always thought my daughter was not very smart, but now I find her smarter than an ilawatelk. And as beautiful as her mother,” he added in a whisper before walking away to his own pallet.

Well, Captain, Dashvara smiled as he closed his eyes. We both rejoice in the happiness of our dear Xalya ladies. Now let’s worry about ours.