43. Twenty-three princes from the Border

The Xalyas were led to a large room full of lined-up straw mattresses. At the far end was a window with an openwork stone plaque worthy of the best Diumcili craftsmen. Dashvara gazed at it with the impression of entering a small palace.

“This will be your dormitory,” the human informed with a vague gesture. His Titiaka accent was so thick that Dashvara had to strain to understand him. “The kitchens are on the other side of the courtyard, and you may eat there at any time of the day as long as there is something to grab. We, the housekeepers, sleep right outside this door,” he said, “If you have any doubts, just come by and ask. One of us is usually always around. The cook and his daughter sleep in the kitchen. You don’t have free access to the other rooms. And… let’s just say that’s it.” He gave them an inquisitive look. “Any questions?”

Several exhalations were heard. Dashvara suppressed a nervous laugh. He was asking if they had any questions…! Captain Zorvun replied in a calm tone:

“Indeed, we may have quite a few questions. But first, thank you for your welcome. I am Zorvun of Xalya. May I ask your names?”

The human nodded quietly with a slight smile.

“Of course. My name is Wassag. And these are Yorlen and Dafys,” he pointed to an elf with purple hair and then to a sibilian with a face as gray as stone and deep blue eyes. “The belarch, old Leoshu, has gone to close the gate. Please, can you roll up your sleeves? We need to check that you are all marked.”

Several sighs were heard, but no one protested. When the three guardians had reviewed them, the captain asked:

“Well, Wassag, what does our new job involve?”

Wassag raised an eyebrow, and his gray eyes twinkled.

“Let’s just say we weren’t told. I suppose, as soon as His Eminence is back from his trip, you will know.”

“His Eminence?” Zamoy muttered with a wrinkled nose.

“Trip?” Zorvun repeated with a puzzled look. “Atasiag is not in Titiaka?”

Wassag pouted as if trying to suppress a smile.

“Let’s just say he’s not here,” he admitted. “But he’ll most likely be back the day after tomorrow.”

Sashava growled, and Zorvun gave him a warning look.

“It’s all right,” the captain said. “Then we’ll wait for his return.”

“Yes. What else could you do, anyway, right?” Wassag smiled broadly this time. “Ah, get used to calling him His Eminence,” he added more seriously. “Atasiag Peykat is a magistrate, and he is a candidate for the Council. He is a citizen of prestige, and we, his workers, are the first ones who should honor him.”

His comment generated expressions of mockery and exasperation that were difficult to contain. Dashvara thought he saw a mixture of confusion and curiosity in the guardian’s silver eyes.

“I guess that’s part of the contract,” Zorvun sighed at last.

Wassag looked at his two companions out of the corner of his eye before stating:

“I suggest you leave your bags here. I’ll guide you to the kitchens. You must be hungry, I suppose.”

All the faces lit up, especially those of Maef, Shurta, and Arvara. Dashvara smiled. Between the three of them, they could have eaten an entire cow.

Outside, a cold, damp wind had risen, blowing from the sea. They hurried through the portico to the kitchens. There, a tall elfocan, dressed entirely in white, was humming a song in Diumcilian as he arranged spoons on the table.

“Serl,” Wassag said with obvious affection, “you don’t have to pamper us like we’re children. Let’s just say we know where to find the spoons. How’s the broth?”

“Ah, Ah!” the cook exclaimed. “Don’t touch it, Wass. Sit down with the others. Ah,” he smiled with all his teeth. “How nice to have a full table again. Hi, everyone. My name is Serlag. I’ll bring you the broth and bread right away. And, after that, I have a surprise!”

As the man named Serl walked away, Dashvara sat down next to Makarva and whispered:

“They took us for a delegation of princes, didn’t they?”

Makarva twirled his spoon. Imitating Wassag’s way of speaking, he admitted in a low tone:

“Let’s just say that’s the impression it gives.”

Dashvara half-stifled a laugh, and when he met Wassag’s gaze, he gave him an apologetic pout: the very discreet Makarva had spoken in Common Tongue.

“Mak,” he sighed patiently, “how many times have I told you that you shouldn’t make fun of people until you’ve assessed their susceptibility?”

“Mm,” Makarva reflected, “I guess you didn’t tell me that yet.”

“You always need an explanation for everything,” Dashvara scoffed teasingly.

Wassag raised his eyebrows and sat down in front of the captain, surrounded by the purple-haired elf and the sibilian. They had not yet spoken a word.

“Is it true that you are from the Border?” the dark-haired man asked.

Zorvun nodded.

“We’re coming from there.”

A glint of curiosity passed through Wassag’s eyes.

“Well, you were lucky to get out. Here, they say that a Doomed seldom reaches the day of his release.”

“No wonder,” Orafe laughed sarcastically. “They’re almost all sentenced to life.”

Of all the Xalyas, Orafe had the stoniest and most scarred face. That’s why Dashvara wasn’t surprised when Wassag stared at him for a few seconds before grimacing quietly.

“I see. Let’s just say that, around here, we don’t know much about the Cantons. I only know that the swamps of Ariltuan are inhabited by dangerous creatures. Orcs, some say.”

“Orcs,” Shurta confirmed.

“And milfids,” Zamoy added casually. “Bipedal creatures with sharp teeth, bluish skin, and claws that skin you alive just by grazing you. Look what one of them did to me,” he added as he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm: a long, scarred groove ran from his shoulder to his elbow. Wassag looked impressed; Yorlen and Dafys remained unperturbed. Zamoy smiled evilly. “Dashvara and Lumon tore that damned beast apart with their swords.”

“For Serenity’s sake…” Wassag whispered.

“There are also adrieges,” observed Pik with one of his usual nervous tics. “Beasts that you don’t know if they walk or crawl and that blend in with the mud. They’re like huge snakes with arms. My brother Kaldaka and I came across an adriege one day when we were weeding shrubs near the edge. It threw one of its venomous spittoons at us, and if Arvara hadn’t been there to take us back to the barracks and Tsu hadn’t treated us with his concoctions, we’d have become real zombies. Look at this,” he added, pulling the collar of his shirt to show a piece of coal-black skin. “Necrosis, that’s what Tsu calls it. My brother has the same thing on his shoulder.”

“Wassag murmured; now he didn’t look so fascinated, but rather frightened. Yorlen, on the other hand, had tilted his head with sudden interest.”

Dashvara intervened:

“And then there are the brizzias. They’re like big stone golems covered with moss. They’re about fifteen feet tall. Just so you get an idea, if they reach out their hand, they can touch the roof of this house. If they punch you in the face, they send you all the way to the desert.”

“Really?” Wassag cleared his throat. A glint of disbelief passed through his eyes.

Really, federate, Dashvara smiled.

“One of them crushed Sashava’s leg with his fist,” Atok said. “And Dashvara broke two ribs attacking it from behind.”

“He headbutted me,” Dashvara said. “And I almost stuck my spear in his eye, but you see? I didn’t do it. If I had, we wouldn’t be sitting here but rather rotting in the mud in the middle of Ariltuan.”

“Did you enter the swamp?” Wassag inquired.

“Yes, we did,” Sashava laughed. Dashvara smiled to see him in such a good mood. “You see, Federate: we’ve walked for miles in the mud.”

“Then the brizzia came, we had enough, and turned back,” Dashvara added, amused.

“Well, the brizzias aren’t the worst,” Alta assured. “The creatures that terrify the Doomed the most are the small ones, the ones you can hardly see. Do you guys know what saravies are?” Wassag and Yorlen nodded. “They are insects that attack you to suck your blood. These bugs inject you with a liquid that makes you jump for hours.”

“No, no, no. It’s more like you collapse on the floor, all twitchy,” Zamoy nuanced. The Triplets were experts in the field: for some reason, the saravies particularly liked their blood.

Makarva cleared his throat and interjected:

“It really takes a whole swarm of saravies to die. On the other hand, with an anfiworm bite, in a few minutes, you are already good for feeding milfids and crows. It is a snake with a very transparent skin,” he explained to the three hosts. “It burrows into the mud, it runs at lightning speed, and you only see it when it falls on you.”

Zorvun muttered, amused:

“You’re scaring them, guys.”

“Scare us? Not at all,” replied Dafys, the sibilian. The sound of his voice was hoarse, like two stones scraping against each other. He wandered his blue eyes over the Xalyas as the cook approached with the broth. “I don’t buy all these stories,” he affirmed. “If these anfiworms are so dangerous, if there are so many horrible monsters, how do you explain that you are still alive?”

His question drew smiles and soft laughs from everyone.

“Because we were lucky, perhaps?” proposed Kodarah the Hairy.

“Because the eyes of Lumon warn us of all dangers,” Miflin interjected.

“Because we have the best captain in the world,” Makarva exulted, holding up his spoon.

“What a pair of adulators,” Zamoy snorted.

“Because we are Xalyas.” Sashava’s statement was emphatic. It might have sounded like a joke coming from anyone else, but coming from him, that was not possible: Sashava did not joke about the Xalyas’ honor. Zorvun cleared his throat.

“And because we were only there for three years.”

Wassag huffed.

“Only three years, you say?”

The captain smiled.

“I know a Doomed who has been there for over fifteen years.” He was talking about Towder, the Tower of Dignity. “Obviously, many don’t survive the first year,” he muttered, and Dashvara guessed he was thinking of Kadayra, Orafe’s brother who had died in the first few months. The captain shook his head. “In practice, if you leave out the diseases, milfids are the greatest danger. They don’t just look for livestock like the orcs: if they come across you on their way, they’ll eat you. And they will stop at nothing, not even steel. In those three years, I haven’t seen a single milfid run for its life.”

For some reason, Zorvun had always been fascinated by the behavior of milfids; Dashvara sometimes wondered if it wasn’t because they possessed the same stubbornness as his friend Lord Vifkan. He smiled and half stood up his turn came to help himself to the broth. This one was composed of an incredible variety of ingredients. He was only able to recognize the carrots and the onion. Near the table, Serl proclaimed with obvious satisfaction:

“Octopus broth, cereals, onions, garlic, thyme, and other ingredients, Uncle Serl’s secret. Eat before it gets cold and stop your macabre tales. Here, in my kitchen, we talk about the good life and joy, not about disgusting monsters. Eat up!”

Pleasantly surprised, Dashvara joined the others in conveying his thanks, and Uncle Serl blushed with pleasure before walking away to tend to his kitchen.

The broth was excellent. He couldn’t remember eating a dish that good since… well, since never, really. In the Dungeon of Xalya, they had never had ingredients to properly season meals, and in the Border, they ate garfias every day, and Rayorah’s guard only provided them with good meat once a year, for the winter feast; and it wasn’t especially fun to go into town in the middle of the snow to get it.

Bah, he said to himself, gobbling up. That’s all in the past, Dash: now the good life awaits you.

He smiled again, amused. At that moment, he would have remained seated with his broth even if he had been offered the freedom to leave. Where would he go anyway? To kill Shalussi leaders? As soon as he had sauced his bowl, he joined in the “ladle parade”, as the inventive Zamoy called it, and helped himself to a second portion. Maef and Arvara were already on their third bowl.

Ah. Cobra doesn’t know who he’s taken under his roof. If they continue to treat us so well, we’ll empty his pantry in a week.

He was swallowing his last spoonful when he saw Makarva leaning against the back of his chair and sighing with deep satisfaction.

“Eternal Bird, do you think they will look at me sideways if I hug Uncle Serl?” His eyes shone with gratitude.

Dashvara laughed.

“Not a chance. Actually, if you hug him, I will hug him too.”

“Great. Where did he go?” Makarva asked. The others were deep in conversation, making more racket than a bunch of drunkards. Even Orafe the Grouch and Sashava the Grumpy were in a good mood. Dafys, the sibilian, had slipped away, but Wassag and Yorlen were still there, one talking with the captain and the other as silent as a grave. For a few seconds, Dashvara stared at his brothers, fascinated. There were few things in life more beautiful than to see one’s loved ones happy and carefree, satiated and with the wonderful conviction that they would never return to the Border… He blinked.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Careful, Dash. You’re getting sentimental.

Arvara the Giant’s stentorian laughter drew him from his thoughts. Makarva was still looking for the cook when Dashvara saw the elfocan enter through an inner door. He was carrying a bag over his shoulder, which was making glass noises.

“What is it you’re carrying there, Serl?” Wassag inquired, getting up to help him put his bag on the table.

The cook put on a huge smile.

“An old wine from Atalbella, boys,” he announced. “The best wine on the entire east coast of the Pilgrim Ocean. A gift from His Eminence.”

Amazement gave way to enthusiasm. With a wolfish smile, Makarva murmured:

“I’ll hug him twice!”

“Be careful, Mak,” Dashvara warned him. “One more eminent gift and this whole thing could degenerate into an orgy.”

Orafe protested that he would have preferred to drink the wine with the broth, but Serl was adamant that a wine of this class should be drunk as dessert. They were each given a single glass, and Makarva muttered in disappointment that one glass of wine couldn’t possibly degenerate into anything, anyway. Dashvara drank his glass in one gulp and watched the cook as he very delicately took a sip of his.

“Feel the texture,” he said, exultant. “It’s like a strawberry that’s fallen into an amber well.”

A strawberry what? Dashvara exchanged glances with Makarva, and they both cleared their throats quietly while the cook continued to rave and spout nonsense about his wine. Each sentence was more extravagant than the previous.

“Blazing with light,” Dashvara echoed, huffing. “Unless he means the candelabra…”

“Blessed by the Grace of Humility,” Makarva chuckled. “Demons, when I think I drank it unknowingly.”

Zamoy gave Miflin an eloquent nudge.

“Hurry up, or he’ll beat you to the punch, Poet,” he teased.

When Uncle Serl stopped talking, all the Xalyas had finished their drinks and were watching the imposing elfocan with amused and bewildered expressions.

“Serl,” Wassag said, patting him on the shoulder. “Drink up, come on. You’ll end up dropping your drink. Hey, all of you, I guess you must be exhausted, so I’ll wish you a good night. And like I said, if you need anything, feel free to knock on our door.”

Zorvun stood up, and everyone followed him. An army of chairs screeched back.

“Thank you very much for everything, for the welcome and for the wine,” the captain thanked. He seemed a little intoxicated, as if one glass of wine had altered his reflexes. He didn’t have Kroon’s stamina, Dashvara smiled. As he left the kitchen with his brothers, he confirmed for himself:

“Like I said: they took us for a delegation of princes.”