50. The most hated enemy

They spent three hours sweeping the courtyard and polishing the marble in the gallery. ‘You are not going to clean my house,’ Atasiag had said. Ah! First lie.

Dashvara was wringing a rag over a bucket when foreman Loxarios came through the gate, followed by his faithful hound. The federate took a few steps forward, hands behind his back, walked around the yard, and finally stared at him with his green eyes. Dashvara held his gaze for a few seconds, until he thought he saw a dangerous grimace form in his face. He looked down at his bucket again. There was no point in being impertinent for no reason.

After all, everyone in this house is your family, added a small, joking voice in his mind. Uncle Serl, Uncle Lox, and our kind father, Atasiag.

Damn them.

He continued to scrub the floor for several minutes before foreman Loxarios suddenly barked:

“You, the one with the crutches, stand up.” Everyone stopped their movements to see Sashava leave his rag and stand up with the pride of a Xalya. “What is your name?”

“Sashava of Xalya.”

His tone was clearly hostile, and Dashvara sighed inwardly: diplomacy had never fitted well with Sashava’s mind. The foreman Loxarios beckoned him forward, and the old Xalya moved forward on his crutches; when he stopped in front of him, he had to look up: the federate was a head taller than him.

“His Eminence has found you a position as secretary,” he said. “I will accompany you to the registrar’s office to have your qualifications certified. I am told that all of you here can read and write. Good. Wassag,” he barked, “go to the docks and see that the other Xalyas return early. That is, get them back right away. They should be back by now.” The guardian nodded and ran out. The foreman added, “You guys keep working until they get back. I want you to be ready to go out in an hour. Sashava, this way.”

Sashava opened his mouth, and to Dashvara’s astonishment, closed it again without a single complaint. He followed Loxarios and his dog out of the house with a grimace on his face and flashing eyes. Dashvara could easily guess his thoughts: was he, who had been a warrior all his life, going now to fight with quills and papers?

If only we all fought with quills, old man.

The courtyard was suddenly very empty. When Dashvara noticed this, he felt his heart beat faster. All the foreigners were gone. Wassag was no longer watching them, and Lox would not be back for an hour. There was nothing to stop him from entering Atasiag’s house to talk with his sister. Nervously impatient, he stood up… and met the eyes of old Leoshu, sitting in the doorway. He let out a grunt. That damned belarch… Upset, he knelt again with his rag and resumed his cleaning task. Discreetly, he moved little by little towards the end of the corridor.

As he passed by Boron, the Placid rolled his eyes to the sky.

“Dash, the belarch is watching you.”

Dashvara squeezed the cloth with his fist.

“Oh, well, demons, I don’t care,” he said suddenly.

He stood up and walked straight to the main door. An exclamation of surprise sounded behind him. He ignored it. He reached the staircase, arrived at the door, and reached for the handle, imagining Fayrah already running towards him to hug him… Then, out of nowhere, the blade of a black saber forced him to stop. He watched the blade for two seconds, the time to half stifle his frustration, and before even turning, he sighed:

“Yira…”

He finally turned his head and came upon two slanted eyes, black as night. They were surrounded by skin almost as pale as the moon. That was the only thing he could see of her face, the rest was completely hidden by a black scarf.

“Okay.” Dashvara moved his hand away from the handle but did not back away. “Still hiding your face, huh?”

“And you, you still want to enter a forbidden place,” Yira replied.

“At least now I can see your eyes,” Dashvara rejoiced.

“At least now you’re in a better mood,” she said.

Dashvara smiled.

“Is that what you think?”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t be smiling.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I am capable of smiling in the most unlikely circumstances,” he said. “My brothers are witnesses to that.” He met her eyes again and hesitated. “Funny, I would have expected you to kick me out of the front door.”

“Should I?” Yira’s eyes smiled.

Dashvara lowered his eyes to the towel he still held in his hand.

“Actually, no,” he admitted. “I was just cleaning the floor. You don’t need to threaten me with your strange sword.”

A glint passed through Yira’s eyes. Sadness? Disappointment? Dashvara couldn’t tell. In any case, she sheathed her weapon and gestured to the ground.

“It’s all yours.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, and surprising himself, went to get the bucket and began to clean the floor outside the door. Yira had disappeared. He scanned the columns, puzzled. Had she really left? After several minutes of hesitation and observation, he wrung his rug and was about to get up and sneak out the door when he heard a sudden:

“Just because you can’t see me, it doesn’t mean I’m not close to you.”

Dashvara gasped and looked around in confusion. Where…? Finally, he saw her silhouette merging with one of the columns in the gallery. He blinked, thinking his vision had been altered as if in a dream. It was as if… as if… The next moment, her grayish clothes changed color and regained their black hue. Dashvara was stunned. Eternal Bird… Am I going crazy, or what? He stammered and spoke unintelligible words that even he did not understand. Yira laughed quietly as she approached.

“These are only harmonies, Xalya. Illusionary spells. Haven’t you ever seen one of these before?” With her back to the courtyard, she raised her hand, and in her palm appeared a column of red smoke that fluttered about before fading away.

Dashvara frowned, and taking Yira by surprise, he grabbed her gloved hand and examined it as he stood up. He could only take a quick glance at her: Yira suddenly drew back, like a frightened bird.

“Is this magic?” he asked.

Yira nodded and silently pointed to the ground. Dashvara got the message: if he wanted to continue talking with her, he should not ask her about her veiled face or touch her. With a sigh, he kneeled down on the marble and continued working.

“Harmonies are celmist arts,” Yira finally said. “One of the least expensive arts, but not the simplest. They are only illusions, but some illusions can be more effective than any other spell. The Ragail guards use them in battle.”

Dashvara merely nodded. If he remembered correctly, the Ragails were Titiaka’s elite guard and enjoyed enormous prestige. It was no wonder that in addition to being good fighters, they were mages or illusionists or something like that. There was a long silence before Yira broke it again, her voice uncertain:

“Your brothers will arrive shortly. And Atasiag won’t be long either. You should empty that bucket outside and go eat.”

Dashvara looked surprised.

“Eat? But it’s not even noon yet.”

A mocking glint passed into Yira’s eyes.

“Maybe. But we’re going out shortly after noon.”

He was taken aback by her words.

“What do you mean, we?” he repeated.

Yira crossed her arms, nodded, and pointed to the courtyard.

“Go, please. I don’t want Atasiag to see you so close to the main door.”

Dashvara snorted and stood up with the bucket.

“I love it when things are explained to me clearly.”

Yira did not answer. But an urgent voice did, behind the door.

“Dash! Dash, are you still there?”

Dashvara almost spilled the bucket with the dirty water. He clearly heard Yira’s weary sigh, but he ignored it. For a moment, he was about to rush for the door. He had to fight the demons of his instincts to control himself.

“Fayrah,” he gasped. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Dash! Oh, Dash. I missed you so much!” The door muffled her sister’s trembling voice. “I-I thought I would never see you again. When Atasiag told me you were still alive and that you were in Atria Canton, I didn’t leave him alone for a minute until he promised to get you out of there. It’s been so—”

Dashvara interrupted her impatiently.

“How are you, sister?”

The answer was slow in coming.

“I’m well. I’m doing very well. But I should ask you. These three years…”

The words died behind the door. Dashvara shook his head.

“I’m fine, sister. Don’t worry about me.”

Then he heard the sound of voices behind him.

“By the Serenity!” Yira waved nervously. “It’s Atasiag. Go away at once, Dashvara, or he’ll suspect something. I’m supposed to be watching the house.”

Dashvara turned to see that Atasiag was indeed taking leave of his followers near the gate. Ignoring Yira’s exasperated look, he approached the gate and put the bucket down.

“Sister. Since Atasiag seems to listen to you more than to me, could you ask him why he is preventing me from speaking with you? At least let him give me a clear answer.”

Fayrah did not answer, and Dashvara wondered if she had even heard his question.

“Sister?”

“She’s gone,” Yira informed him patiently. “She is more careful than you are. And now pray that Atasiag does not come after you. He saw you.”

Dashvara gave her a weary look.

“Do you think I care?”

“If you are a bit smart, you should care,” she said.

She added nothing, melted back into the columns, and Dashvara lost sight of her. Escorted by Arvara and Miflin, Atasiag had already arrived near the stoop.

“Good,” he said. “You’ve behaved very well. Once you get here, you must always wait for me to send you back. This gesture,” he raised a hand over his shoulder, “means you may withdraw.”

The Giant and the Poet hesitated for a moment, glanced curiously at Dashvara, breathed out silently, and then, finally, they walked quickly to the captain.

Let me guess: you guys had a blast in Homage Square, didn’t you?

Dashvara wiped the wry smile off his face when he met Atasiag’s thoughtful gaze. Without a word, the federate walked up the stoop past him and opened the door, which was not even locked. Only then did he turn to Dashvara.

“I don’t know why, I have the impression that you want to tell me something, Philosopher. A moral lesson, perhaps?”

Dashvara gave him a crooked smile and replied:

“A man with a dignified Eternal Bird knows how to find the moral lessons by himself. Better: he knows how to apply them to himself.”

Atasiag smiled without the falseness he used with his adulators.

“Your words are refreshing,” he admitted. “I take it you have not yet given your master’s ‘Eternal Bird’ for lost.” He twirled the baton in his hand until he seemed to make a decision. “Come back here at four o’clock. I will allow you to see the person you wish to see.” He smiled at Dashvara’s obvious satisfaction and added, “Then I will take you to see someone you may not wish to see.”

Dashvara squinted an eye, alarmed.

“Who are you talking about?”

Atasiag clicked his tongue and was about to close the door behind him when Dashvara blocked the door with his boot and insisted:

“Who are you talking about?”

Immediately, Atasiag’s face hardened. He pointed the baton at his chest.

“Moderate yourself, Philosopher. You forget who you are talking to. It seems one can’t converse with you without you forgetting your place. Do you want me to reconsider my proposal?”

Dashvara stepped back, calling himself an idiot.

“No, Eminence.”

Atasiag arched an eyebrow.

“Yira?” he called.

His pupil materialized so quickly next to Dashvara that he had to suppress a gasp of surprise.

“Yes, Father?” Yira asked.

Atasiag smiled with an amused pout.

“Abuse him as much as you can in training.”

He closed the door without waiting for Yira’s reply. Dashvara looked at the girl with the masked face with curiosity.

“Training?” he repeated. “What training?”

Yira pointed to the courtyard. The ten Xalyas who had gone to the docks had just come back. Several carried large, elongated bags. They set them down on the ground, and before they could show their curious companions what was inside, Dashvara said:

“Weapons?”

Yira nodded.

“Every Councilor has a personal guard, and as a candidate for the Council, His Eminence should be no exception. Some personal guards are purely ceremonial,” she admitted. “Not everyone can afford to train and equip them properly. Which is a shame, because, in this day and age, it’s never a bad idea to take some precautions.” His slanted eyes smiled. “Go eat with the others: as soon as Lox returns, we’ll take you to the Arena for your first training. The next few days you will go alone. Some of the guards from reputable families are going there too. I warn you, some of them are former auxiliaries of the Ragails. They are very good fighters.”

Dashvara shook his head, not feeling particularly enthusiastic. He didn’t mind training with his companions, but against foreigners?

Stifling a sigh, he walked down the stoop and across the yard. Makarva and Taw had also just arrived and were approaching, carrying their board with the baskets, all of them filled. They both huffed and puffed their way forward, and Dashvara and Arvara hurried to help them carry their load to the pantry. It looked like they were carrying bags of rocks.

“How was the big market?” Dashvara inquired.

Makarva’s eyes shone.

“Incredible. People everywhere, crazy items, girls more beautiful than fairy tale princesses, and a hurricane of noise. Even Taw thought it was noisy, didn’t you, Taw?”

The half-deaf man nodded.

“My ears are still ringing from so much screaming.”

“And we saw a fight,” Makarva added, his eyes mocking. “But the brawlers hardly came to blows.”

“Hardly?” Dashvara repeated, puzzled.

“Well,” his friend explained in a casual tone, “there were two bands of citizens. They grabbed each other by the wigs, but they didn’t draw their swords. If only you had heard them shout!” He shook his hand under his breath. “One said, ‘Damn you, Unitarian scum, I’ll gouge your eyes out, you filthy beggar, parasite’, and a long string of refined words like that. These Titiakas are pretty damn rude.”

“And what did the other one say?” Dashvara smiled, amused.

“He said, go to the… what was it, Taw?”

“To the infernal abyss of the Four Tritons,” Tawrrus helped him. “Or something like that.”

“And he sent the Federation flying to the north winds,” Makarva added playfully. “And he added something else, but I can’t repeat it without breaching decorum. Then he fell silent when a militia patrol passed by. One of his friends advised him to run with them, and the Unitary gang started galloping faster than a steppe horse, right, Taw? As they passed, a guy in a yellow tunic, a priest, I think, said something like: may the almighty Cili send you to the flames of hell, you crazy people! What a crazy town,” he sighed. “May fortune guard us against these excited citizens.”

“You said it,” Dashvara agreed, smiling. As they walked out into the courtyard, he asked, “And you, Arvara? How did it go with His Eminence and his clever followers?”

The snort the Giant let out was enough of an answer.

“The trip there and back was boring as hell,” he admitted. “The rest of the time we talked with servants who were waiting, like us, for their masters to finish their business. You see, around the market, there are dozens of lodges with stone steps where the citizens sit to talk to each other. We sat near the entrance. We talked with a worker from the Yordark. The two men from Shyurd who brought Morzif back yesterday were also there.” Seeing Dashvara’s grim expression, he assured, “Actually, they are quite friendly. They even asked after the Blacksmith. They thought the Border had driven him mad. You could tell they were genuinely concerned.” Dashvara took on a skeptical look: Arvara saw sincerity everywhere. The giant sighed patiently. “I assure you, Dash. They were just doing their jobs. There were two Korfu workers, too,” he added. “But the Legitimate almost immediately sent them to deliver I don’t know what messages, and we could barely speak with them.”

He fell silent and shrugged his shoulders without knowing what to add. Miflin, who had approached to listen to them, said grandly:

“Furthermore, His Excellency Rayeshag Korfu told His Eminence Atasiag Peykat that he was pleased that his gift met his expectations at first glance.” His tone was halfway between mockery and relief. “If we are just asked to be an ornamental escort, I augur us a peaceful life. Maybe a little monotonous, but after the Border, a little vacation can’t hurt us.”

Dashvara gestured to the weapons the other Xalyas were now examining and replied:

“Not as monotonous as you think. A long afternoon of training awaits us.” Facing the questioning looks of his companions, he explained, “After lunch, we’re going to the Arena.”

Lumon arched an eyebrow.

“Did the hooded girl tell you that?”

Dashvara nodded, smiled, and revealed to them:

“This time I saw her eyes.”

“Oh…” Makarva smiled eloquently at him. “Were they black as night and deep as a celestial well?”

Dashvara shook his head in exasperation: his friend was repeating to him word for word what he had once said about Zaadma’s eyes. A day when he was not particularly inspired. He went straight to the kitchen door, and Makarva protested.

“Demons, Dash, don’t hold us in suspense like that. What color were they?”

Dashvara stopped in front of the door, and seeing that several Xalyas were waiting for his answer, he repressed a smile, amused.

“They’re black,” he replied. “Mak,” he warned as his friend opened his mouth, exulting. “Keep that miflinery to yourself, will ya?”

Makarva kept it for himself. In the kitchen, Uncle Serl had already prepared garfias for them. Sitting at the table, Dashvara concluded that, after a dinner of kings, Atasiag had opted to feed them in a less expensive way. However, none of his companions complained: Uncle Serl had been able to make a dish of garfias into a genuine delicacy. After they had poured their bowls, they renewed their thanks, and Miflin intoned:

Master of the great masters,

Who do wonders in his home,

Our arms, like alabasters,

Raise you to the top-flight world.

Dashvara laughed, and as Zamoy and Makarva cheered loudly, he leaned over to the Poet and whispered:

“Say, isn’t that a three-century-old stanza of the Enlightened Shilvara of Xalya?”

The Poet put on a guilty face, but it lasted only half a second. His shame vanished at once, and he took up the arguments he had made in the watchtower of Compassion when he reasoned:

“It’s not imitation when you speak in a moment of inspiration. As soon as I took the first bite of garfias, I thought of this verse.”

Mockingly, Dashvara gave him a brotherly slap and proclaimed:

“Blessed is the one who, while filling one’s belly, nourishes high thoughts.”

Miflin laughed.

Unsurprisingly, the conversations dragged on at the table, and foreman Loxarios had to enter the kitchen himself to get their attention and ask them to go out into the courtyard to select their weapons. Dashvara soon found two acceptable sabers, took them out of their scabbards, weighed them, and sheathed them again, satisfied, before turning his attention to the armor. These were made of sowna scales, resistant and lighter than he had expected. How much had they cost Atasiag Peykat? Yira then appeared to explain the best way to put them on. She introduced herself as ‘an agent of His Eminence’ and informed them that, as with the foreman Loxarios, they were to obey any order from her. More than one Xalya looked at her with curiosity, and Dashvara perceived a touch of uneasiness in the girl’s voice when she said:

“Foreman Loxarios? I think they’re ready to go.”

The foreman nodded impatiently, swept his eyes over the yard, and suddenly let out a complaint; his dog looked at him curiously as he muttered:

“What’s with the drow? What is he doing there, with his arms dangling?”

Tsu had stayed a few paces away to observe the commotion, not touching either weapons or armor. Before he could respond, the captain explained:

“Tsu is a doctor, not a warrior.”

The foreman raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“He’s from the Border and he cannot fight?”

“You can count on one hand the times I’ve seen him with a weapon,” Zorvun assured.

Foreman Lox shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll have to inform His Eminence…” He suddenly fell silent when he heard Tsu grunt. To everyone’s amazement, the drow ran off. “And what the hell is happening to him now?” he exhaled, exasperated.

It was Morzif. He had come out of the dormitory and was now walking straight and stiff as a spear. The drow tried to hold him back, and his red eyes flashed, annoyed, as the Blacksmith said decisively:

“I’ll go with you.”

“This is ridiculous!” Tsu said. “Your wounds will open up.”

“Never mind my wounds,” the Blacksmith replied.

Something in the tone of his voice and his expression made the drow desist. The foreman shrugged.

“Follow us if you can, but today you will not train with the others. You are not in good condition.”

Morzif did not object, and when the foreman motioned for him to follow, he walked with his brothers toward the exit without complaint. Brave Blacksmith, Dashvara thought with a small smile. He glanced at the others as they walked down the street to the north. As Maloven said, the stubbornness of us Xalyas is sometimes confused with our stupidity. But it is also our strength. The key is to find the middle ground.

By the time they passed the court, Morzif had already fallen behind by a good length, but no Xalya stopped to wait for him: that would have been an insult to his Eternal Bird, and that was even worse than letting him faint. Only Tsu remained with him, inexpressive. In three years, the drow had had time to adapt to the not always reasonable consequences of Xalya pride, but Dashvara knew he still thought Xalyas sometimes behaved like stubborn kids.

And maybe we do, Dashvara smiled.

The Arena could be seen from afar. It was a huge circular building of stone and marble filled with tunnels and arches. As soon as they entered the square surrounding the monument, the foreman took out a scroll from his pocket and walked to an entrance where several soldiers in red capes were posted. Dashvara watched curiously as they approached. He wasn’t sure why, but something about them made him feel a little… afraid.

“They are Ragails,” Yira’s voice whispered beside him.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and studied the Ragail Guards again as Loxarios handed the scroll to a man with a golden badge on his chest.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said. “These are the Xalyas of His Eminence Atasiag Peykat.”

The Ragail sergeant glanced at the parchment and waved them through.

“Welcome to the arena, novices,” he said with a smile. Dashvara didn’t hear any condescension in his voice, but his smile didn’t seem exactly friendly either.

They passed through a tunnel and three iron gates before arriving on an oval esplanade no less than seventy paces in diameter. A wall of about fifteen feet separated the ground from the first tiers of seats, where some curious citizens had installed themselves with parasols. Dashvara spent only a few seconds admiring the prodigious building and its many bleachers before looking down, blinded by the sun. In the arena, two large groups of warriors were training. Some wore the eight-pointed White Star of the Legitimate Steliar family. The others wore the Blue Circle of the Korfu; they were black humans, tall and strong, and if he hadn’t been so far away from the steppe, he would have sworn that those features were… those of… Time stopped in his mind. With a heart as cold as a stone, he looked at the Korfu guards and clenched his fists around the pommels of his swords, seized by a sudden spasm.

“Akinoas,” a hoarse voice whispered. It took him some seconds to realize that it was his own.

Gasps and exclamations of disbelief rang out, but he barely heard them. His mind had blanked out, too horrified to function properly. Hundreds of miles from the steppe, he had just found those who had wiped out his people, those who had stripped him of everything three years ago. Those who had executed his father with an axe. Anger overcame him like a galloping wave and burst suddenly with Maef’s thunderous roar:

“DEATH TO MURDERERS!”

The arena suddenly turned into chaos.

“Xalyas, stop!” Captain Zorvun thundered.

Dashvara did not listen. He had already rushed toward the Akinoas, with swords drawn, and it took a few more seconds for a glimmer of sanity to seep into his fury-blinded mind. It was going to take him longer to be able to stop on his own.