52. A critical encounter

Dashvara had never fought a woman seriously before, and it was hard for him to swallow his scruples. He swallowed them abruptly when Yira attacked and he had to dodge the attack… He saw her sword go through his as if it had never been there. He gasped and narrowly avoided another attack. Yira was using illusions.

His perception changed. He saw the air rip and ripple around him. Yira stood still again. She was carrying two black swords in her hands. Where had she gotten the second one from? She rushed forward, and to Dashvara’s amazement, threw one of the swords at him… and it turned into a terrible snake with huge fangs. Dashvara instinctively ducked and stepped back, his eyes bulging. He thought he had suddenly fallen into an abyss of nightmares. A horde of shadow snakes swooped down on him, shooting like deadly arrows. Dashvara raised his swords and slashed through the air as fast as he could. He didn’t know if steel could do anything against this magic. As it turned out, it didn’t: the flying reptiles flew through his weapons as if they had never existed. Oh, demons. Were these monsters really just illusions? As soon as they reached him, they vanished, and Dashvara had the horrible and absurd certainty that they had entered his body to kill him from within. His heart raced, and his lungs betrayed him. He swallowed blood but did not cough. The next second, he saw the real black blade of the sword pointed at his chest. He found himself back in a stable arena, without snakes and without illusions. The fight hadn’t even lasted two minutes.

“That’s cheating,” he croaked, lowering his weapons.

An amused glint shone in Yira’s eyes.

“It’s not cheating. These are harmonies. So? Do you surrender?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“What do you think?” he replied.

Yira lowered her sword, visibly satisfied.

“You should leave. There’s less than half an hour before four. And His Eminence doesn’t like delays.”

Dashvara had not forgotten the appointment, but he did not think that time could have passed so quickly. Still dazed, he silently nodded and unconsciously walked around Yira at a careful distance. This magic stuff had given him a more than disturbing image of this woman.

As he passed by his brothers, he grumbled before any of them could comment:

“This magician is more of a makarver than you, Mak.”

“I’ve never seen you struggle so badly,” his friend mocked. “What spell did she cast on you?”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement.

“Didn’t you see the horrible snakes she threw at me?”

The Xalyas shook their heads. Zamoy confessed:

“We just saw that she was throwing some kind of shadow rays at you. Afterwards, you were paralyzed like a stone and the Faceless One approached you without you defending yourself.”

Dashvara winced.

“Argh,” he growled. “The Old Kings hated magic for a reason. Anyway, I’m leaving. His Eminence wants me to visit him now.”

More than one person looked surprised.

“It seems that Atasiag is particularly fond of you,” Alta observed.

Dashvara merely shrugged and replied:

“Mysteries of life. Listen, about the Akinoas—”

Orafe cut him off, his voice harsh:

“We know that, Dash. If you’ve given your word that we won’t attack them, I won’t attack them. But I still think this deal is inhumane. The Akinoas deserve to die.”

Dashvara nodded, accepting his opinion. He did not expect any Xalya to forgive the Akinoas for their crimes: he himself could not forgive them. Even Maloven—that overly forgiving old man—probably wouldn’t have been able to. He glanced at the faces of the Xalyas, and without answering, he waved at them, turned his back on them, and headed for the exit of the arena. There, he met the mocking faces of several Ragails who had witnessed Yira’s dazzling victory. Dashvara shrugged.

“I wasn’t going to let a lady lose,” he said casually. More than one guard smiled.

At the entrance, Dashvara found the sergeant sitting on a pallet, reading a book.

“Going somewhere, soldier?” the Ragail inquired, looking up.

“See my master,” Dashvara replied. He glanced curiously at the cover of the volume. It was entitled The Fisherman of Light. He gave a meditative pout. Technically speaking, how could anyone fish for something that could not be grasped with one’s hands? He smiled inwardly. I’ll have to ask the Poet about that.

The sergeant raised his eyebrows and observed:

“I’m not stopping you from leaving.”

Dashvara hurriedly nodded and exited the building. He crossed the square surrounding the arena, dodging elegant people wearing white tunics and wigs, colorful clothes, and gold belts. He passed through the same streets as he did on the way in. He was turning left to go to the Tribunal when a sudden vision stopped him short. There, in front of an apothecary’s store, a woman was greeting another one, throwing some retort at her with an amused face. He would have recognized her among a thousand. It was Zaadma. She was about to go back to her store, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, when a sixth sense led her to look around the street. Dashvara crossed the black eyes of his goddess, and for a moment, he was tempted to continue his way and pretend not to recognize her.

And you call the captain a coward, Dash? a small, strained voice in his head scoffed. It’s only natural that Zaadma found another man. You never told her you loved her. And, even if you had, three years have passed since you last saw her; look at her: she doesn’t even recognize you.

He approached her almost reluctantly and gave her a hesitant smile.

“It’s been a long time, cousin.”

Zaadma opened her eyes wide and let out a muffled exclamation.

“Dash? For the Divinity’s sake, for the Divinity’s sake!” she repeated, stunned, looking him up and down. “I knew you would come, but I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“And I never thought I’d see you looking so radiant, Zae.” Dashvara’s smile widened, and this time it was genuine. “So now you’ve settled in Titiaka,” he observed, glancing at the small herbal shop.

Zaadma smiled, blushing.

“In Dazbon, I couldn’t feel comfortable with my father around. I have to admit that Titiaka is a much more beautiful town than Dazbon, don’t you think? The people are more talkative and open. And they love to eat all kinds of herbs. Business is going great.” She smiled mischievously, then gave him an inquisitive look. “What about you, Dash? I guess you must be happy with the change of scenery, right?”

We talk like strangers, Dashvara thought with a shudder. He nodded and pointed to his beautiful sowna scale armor.

“You see, they even dress me like a prince,” he replied. He was about to make some sarcastic comment about the Border, but he held back. Nervous, he gestured vaguely toward the street. “I’m sorry, Zaadma. I have to go. I hope I can talk to you soon.” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you who the lucky father is?”

Zaadma’s dark eyes sparkled with happiness.

“He’s your brother, cousin.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and then remembered that in Rocavita, Rokuish had pretended to be his brother.

“Rok?” He laughed heartily as Zaadma nodded. “Then the third Shalussi was the right one. I’m happy for both of you. You’re not bullying him too much, I hope.”

Zaadma rolled her eyes.

“Ha! The only bully is this one,” she assured, patting her stomach. “It’s a shame you have to leave already. I’d be happy to have you come back here. You must have a lot to talk about, and so do I,” she smiled, “as always. Rok says I talk more than his mother.”

Dashvara felt a warm wind rush through his heart. No, he corrected. They weren’t talking like strangers. Zaadma was the first person in Titiaka who seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he promised firmly. Then he hesitated, thinking of Atasiag. “Well, at least I’ll come back if I can.”

He laughed at himself: obviously, he wasn’t going to come back if he couldn’t. Sometimes, when he was nervous, he said such nonsense, really… He took a deep breath and pronounced the usual Xalya blessing:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over you, over Rokuish and over this little bully who is not yet born.”

Zaadma opened her mouth, feigning indignation.

“Little bully?” she repeated. “I have the right to call him a bully, because I am his mother, but no one else can. Now, go do what you have to do,” she said and smiled: “And, since we are giving blessings, may the White Dragon protect you.”

Dashvara saluted her and walked away more joyful than mortified. On the way, he dismissed all his fantasies and relegated them to the past. It’s high time you stopped dreaming about imaginary loves, Dash. Now focus on your steps and return to the real world.

He was so focused on getting back to the real world that he didn’t see the old woman in the extravagant wig and the imposing green dress, and he bumped into her. He barely managed to catch her before she fell.

“Demons!” he stammered. “My sincerest apologies, old lady, is everything alright?”

Something whistled in his ears; he received a blow from a staff in the back that made him see stars. He gave thanks to the good fortune of wearing armor; otherwise, he would have broken something for sure. He let go of the old woman, staggered, and turned around to find himself face to face with a haughty young man with an expression contracted by indignation.

“Watch where you’re going, slave!” he cried.

He almost used his baton again, but when he looked down at his belt and saw the Red Dragon, he seemed to change his mind. Dashvara then noticed that he was wearing the Blue Circle of Korfu on his truncheon.

“Lan,” the old lady intervened calmly. “I’m fine, dear. Leave him alone.”

Dashvara groaned inwardly. This young man was Lanamiag Korfu. The son of Rayeshag Korfu. Another ally of Atasiag Peykat. His mouth dry, he decided to renew his apology:

“Sagdi hatnetu.”

He had the bad idea to speak in Diumcilian like the Legitimates, and something in Lanamiag’s expression told him that he had blundered. The words of the shaard Maloven came back to his mind: ‘Never negotiate in a language you don’t know’.

“My apology?” Lanamiag was indignant. “What the hell, do you demand that I apologize to you?” he hissed and raised his staff. “I will help your master train his new workers, oh yes, I will.”

Dashvara thought for a second about drawing his swords. Then he thought of running away, and that seemed wiser. He dodged a blow, and several passers-by exclaimed in amazement. He hurriedly stepped back and ran out into the street while Lanamiag was getting hot.

“Guards, arrest him!”

You made a mistake, Dash: running away can only make things worse.

He checked as two men in militia uniforms blocked his path and pushed him backwards. Knowing that pulling out his swords might be his death warrant, he turned back to Lanamiag Korfu, his jaw clenched.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” one of the militiamen whispered. “You don’t run away from a citizen, and even less from a Legitimate. You’d better accept your punishment without making a scene. This is peer-to-peer advice.”

Dashvara grunted in response, but when he arrived in front of Lanamiag, he obeyed the orders without “making any scene”. He had to take off his armor ‘so as not to damage the equipment of His Eminence Atasiag Peykat’, and Lanamiag started to hit him with his commanding stick. The cursed Korfu even proved to be quite didactic as, between blow and blow, he pronounced lessons of conduct:

“A worker does not look a citizen in the eye.” Bam, bam! “He always moves out of the way.” Bam, bam! “He doesn’t leave unless he is told to.” Bam, bam! “He accepts to be punished for his bad behavior.” Bam, bam! “And he doesn’t speak unless he is asked to speak.”

He had received only ten blows. Well, the “only” was relative. Dashvara was panting on the ground listening to the words of the Legitimate like an insidious and meaningless litany. When he managed to sit up, Lanamiag Korfu had given several dettas to each militiaman and was already walking away with the grandmother.

Eternal Bird, he thought, with a heavy heart. Now I understand what we are to you, citizens. Instruments. Mere possessions that look like sajits but are not treated as such.

Cold anger seized him, and when one of the militiamen kindly helped him to his feet, he spat angrily on the ground.

“Next time you’ll know what to do,” the militiaman sighed, patting him on the arm. “Think before you act tough.”

“Eh,” his companion interjected. “He spat blood.”

Dashvara didn’t even bother to look down at the ground to check.

“Thanks for the advice, federate,” he said. And he prepared to put on the armor despite the pain.

“Wait, you’re hurt,” the militiaman said. “We have to take you to a doctor. A blow may have—”

“Don’t worry,” Dashvara cut him off. “This is perfectly normal. If you really want to help me, help me put this back.”

As Dashvara gasped with every movement, the two militiamen looked at him, puzzled. He had never felt so clumsy putting on armor.

“Putting this on will make you suffer more,” the first militiaman patiently observed.

“I don’t care,” Dashvara grumbled.

After a brief hesitation, the militiaman approached and helped him to dress. Finally, Dashvara put back his purple belt with the swords and said:

“Thank you. Have a good day, federates.”

“We are not federates,” replied the man who had helped him. “I am the son of pirates. And he comes from a nomadic family.” He glanced at his companion before adding in a low voice: “You were a Doomed, weren’t you? I saw the seal,” he explained when he saw Dashvara arch an eyebrow. “Where are you from? The Country?”

Dashvara frowned.

“From where? Oh,” he understood. “You mean the Blue Country, to the south? No, I’m from the north.”

A flash of understanding passed through the militiaman’s eyes.

“Are you from the Bladhy Desert?”

“Not either,” Dashvara smiled. “I come from the steppe of Rocdinfer.”

The militiaman’s eyes widened.

“You’re a Honyr,” he breathed out.

Dashvara gave him a puzzled look.

“A what?”

He had heard that word before, long ago. But he didn’t expect anyone in Diumcili to know it. The militiaman looked down at the swords and nodded, convinced.

“A Honyr, one of those steppe warriors who know how to fight by flying with the wind and—”

“No,” Dashvara interrupted him. “I am not a Honyr. The Honyrs are another clan. We call them the Steppe Thieves. I am a Xalya. And I don’t fight by flying with the wind,” he suppressed a smile and said, “Now I’d better go, because I don’t want to be late and get hit with more sticks.” He let out a soft laugh. “I’ve had enough for today. Damn Diumcilians.”

The militiamen smiled, and the one who had been the most talkative said:

“Good luck, Xalya. If one night you pass by the tavern of the Joyful Nadre, don’t hesitate to drop by. That’s where the headquarters are. We have a lot of fun there talking about our beloved Diumcilians.”

The militiaman gave him an eloquent smile, made a brief bow, and walked away with his companion. Dashvara watched them, pensive. The same people who had just obeyed Lanamiag Korfu so that he could beat him up were now helping him and inviting him to an establishment where citizens were criticized. Although he had known this for a long time, he couldn’t help but be surprised when he saw how contradictory the actions of a same person could be, simply out of survival instinct.

How ironic.