53. Banishment

Hurting all over, Dashvara walked the remaining streets, stiffer than a broom, and this time, he was careful to steer clear of any living thing with a wig or a baton. He had just reached Atasiag’s house when the four bells rang, but he did not hurry. Dafys and Wassag were at the entrance hanging white garlands on the gate. He greeted them.

“Already preparing for Sursyn’s night?” he questioned.

Wassag nodded and looked at him curiously.

“His Eminence said you go into the Piano Room, at the end of the courtyard, to the right. It looks like you’ve had a hard session of training.”

Dashvara grunted and tried to adopt a more relaxed pose.

“What about Morzif?” he asked.

“He arrived about two hours ago. He’s asleep. The drow went to buy some medicine.”

“Oh.” Dashvara smiled mockingly. “Surely, if we continue at this rate, we’ll need a lot of them.”

He crossed the entrance without adding anything, and instead of crossing the courtyard, he went around it by the gallery to avoid the eyes of Wassag and Dafys. It seemed to him that the pain in his back was becoming more intense.

Lanamiag, you’ll pay for it, he swore, blowing. And he smiled wryly. My lord father taught me to recite a list of culprits. Three of them are already crossed out, and you’ve just been added to it, foreigner.

He wasn’t particularly excited about having to talk to Fayrah in this state, but he wouldn’t have delayed the meeting with his sister for anything in the world.

He then noticed a melody with strange sounds. He approached the door indicated by Wassag and found it wide open. The Piano Room, as the Wolf had called it, was a spacious room with large windows, sumptuous armchairs, and a large, strange table in front of which Fayrah was waving her hands over white strips that emitted music.

Dashvara stood there for a long time, fascinated. Definitely, his sister had changed. If, before, her innocence had inspired him a deep tenderness, now her beauty and the gracefulness of her gestures made him think of a mysterious fairy capable of captivating the soul of any man who looked at her. For a moment, he forgot all about the pain and entered the room in silence. Only then did he see Atasiag sitting in one of the chairs, a sheet of parchment in his hand and his gaze absorbed and riveted on Fayrah’s face. Dashvara stiffened, alert, as the soft melody of the strange instrument continued to delight him. Finally, Atasiag noticed his presence and gave him a slight sign to wait.

Dashvara waited, behind Fayrah, until the last note died in the living room. Atasiag put down the scroll in his lap and clapped with a wide smile.

“You are a prodigy, Fayrah!”

The girl laughed softly.

“You exaggerate, Father. Lodi plays much better than I do. On the first day of the Mask Festival, she played The Tempest in front of two hundred people and even sang the words. She delighted us all. Even though Lan says that I sing better than her. But he’s even more of a flatterer than you, so I don’t trust what he says.”

“You should,” Atasiag said, amused. “I always say what I think. And Lanamiag has exquisite taste in music. He knows what he’s talking about.”

“I know. He told me about the bard school he wants to found.” She huffed, amused. “He confided in me that he sometimes wishes he could go on adventures with his lute and sing ballads in the Golden Heart Islands.”

“This young man is a bit of a lunatic,” Atasiag observed with a pout as a cold sweat gradually soaked Dashvara’s forehead. Were they talking about Lanamiag Korfu, the one who had just given him a beating in the street?

May the Liadirlá give me strength…

“He’s not a lunatic,” Fayrah protested. “He is sensitive and dreamy, that’s all. I must admit I find him quite likable.”

Atasiag smiled, and Dashvara almost let out a caustic laugh. Sensitive and dreamy? He cleared his throat on purpose, and Fayrah turned her head, startled. She stood paralyzed as if she had suddenly seen a ghost. She calls my master Father, she feels sympathy for a man who beat me up, and she dresses like a federate… But she is still my sister. Dashvara dismissed all feelings other than joy and approached, his heart happy. He took Fayrah by the chin and kissed her forehead with tenderness ignoring the pain in his back.

“Liadirlá unasháat, sîzin,” he murmured in Oy’vat. ‘May the Eternal Bird bless you, sister.’

Fayrah’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t answer with the formula Dashvara was waiting for. She simply took his hands, squeezed them gently, and then, in a sudden rush, she hugged him. Dashvara repressed a grimace of pain, but he responded to her embrace and placed many kisses on the top of her head. The scent of exotic flowers stunned him. Finally, he heard her whisper in Common Tongue:

“Blessed be Cili.”

At the time, he did not react. That a Xalya would name the god of the Diumcilians was… absurd. Simply absurd. However, he let it go, stepped aside, and saw that Atasiag had gone to close the door to the courtyard before settling back into his chair. Dashvara suppressed an irritated sigh. Couldn’t he leave them alone for a moment?

“Well, sister,” he said in Oy’vat. “What’s it like being a princess?”

Fayrah bit her lip, confused.

“I… Brother,” she murmured in Common Tongue. “I no longer speak the Wise Tongue.”

Dashvara stared at her.

“No Xalya renounces to speak the language of the ancient sages, Fayrah. Have you forgotten in three years how to speak in Oy’vat?”

Fayrah shook her head gently, and a deep sadness came over her face.

“I don’t feel Xalya anymore, Dashvara.”

Dashvara received this statement like a punch in the heart. Three years ago, in Rocavita, Fayrah had told him something similar. He had thought then that he had succeeded in reconciling her with the clan. He could not imagine that Fayrah was talking seriously. But now, looking into her eyes, he saw the truth. Fayrah was the daughter of Atasiag Peykat, and she no longer considered herself part of the clan. He was so stunned that he could not speak for a long time.

“Oh, come on, Dash,” his sister lamented. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Can’t we talk about something else? Tell me something. Norgana told me that you used to play katutas with the others in the kitchen. We play an even more fun variation around here. Come on, sit down and tell me about you. I missed you so much!”

Dashvara looked at her and suddenly thought he was seeing another person. It was his sister, and at the same time, she was no longer his sister. For a moment, he was tempted to sit with her, chat, and pretend that nothing she had said had hurt him, but his Eternal Bird was too outspoken to pretend to be serene when he absolutely was not.

“There’s not much to tell,” he replied in Common Tongue, refusing to sit down. “But if you want, I’ll give you a summary. My brothers and I landed in Titiaka, tried to rebel, were condemned and sent to the Border. Kadayra died, we killed many monsters, we tried to escape six times, and then…” he gave Atasiag a disdainful pout and said: “His Eminence got us out of there thanks to the insistence of a daughter of his who, for some unknown reason, continues to have affection for a savage brother, a lord of the steppe who obeys the Eternal Bird of his clan and does not understand how his own sister is able to renounce It in favor of a foreign god.”

Unconsciously, he had raised his voice as his speech turned into a sermon. He feared he had cowed her too much. However, to his astonishment, Fayrah did not cry or ask for forgiveness or try to justify herself. She only said in a neutral and calm voice:

“You may be my brother, but you are not my lord. I am free to choose my life. And I am free to give up what is dust and dead ash to me. Cili is a benevolent god. The Dahars…” she shrugged, “is only ancient history.”

Dashvara staggered backwards. Hearing the Dahars insulted like that was far worse than getting hit with a dozen sticks.

“Treason,” he stammered.

“Philosopher,” Atasiag intervened in a curt voice. He had stood up and approached Fayrah with a protective air. He was carrying his baton and was gripping it tightly when he said, “Your behavior leaves much to be desired. Fayrah is your sister, not to mention my daughter. You owe her the same respect you owe me. Remember that, without her, you would probably still be on the Border. If you raise your voice under my roof again, if I hear you call my daughter a traitor again, I will sell you for a detta and send you to the galleys. Understood?”

Dashvara recovered more quickly than he thought possible.

“Understood, Eminence. Your daughter will no longer suffer my impertinences. Let her keep her new god.” He met Fayrah’s chagrined gaze and bowed his head slightly, feeling more distressed than angry as he said, “As lord of the Xalyas, I accept your voluntary exile and release you from your obligations as a clan member.” It was needless to say that, although in essence, she still remained his sister, he could no longer treat her as such. He refrained from uttering the last words that normally accompanied an exile from the clan. They were too harsh, and Atasiag would not allow them. And besides, he didn’t think he had enough courage to say them to Fayrah.

“I want you to understand me, Dash,” her sister whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out and took his hand in hers, softer than a bird’s feathers. “I spent eighteen years on the steppe, and at no time did I manage to love it as I love Titiaka. Our father was a bloodthirsty warrior. Our mother collected skulls on her shelves. And you, the patrolmen, were always away, fighting and shedding blood. Lessi and I were afraid of you all. There was no sweetness. There was no beauty, unlike in this city. Xalya life was nonsense. When I ran away from the dungeon, I didn’t feel guilty. And today I don’t feel guilty either for abandoning your clan, brother. I have found a father that I love and respect. I have friends who have never wielded a weapon, friends who are passionate about poetry, painting, and music… They are innocent and good people who love me without lecturing me about conduct and stupid honor laws. This is my life. A quiet and happy life. This is the life I always wanted to have. Not the life of a Xalya lost in the steppe waiting for her husband and sons to come back triumphant after committing horrible crimes. If one day I have children, I don’t wish them to be Xalyas.”

If she was trying to heal his wound, she failed spectacularly. Without abruptness, Dashvara let go of her hand and declared in a hoarse voice:

“You never understood what the Eternal Bird means, then. I admit that life on the steppe was not easy. I admit that I too did not approve of all the actions of Lord Vifkan, even though I respected him. I remind you that most of the time my swords and those of my brothers were killing red nadres and scale-nefarious, not humans. Don’t come accusing us of being sadists and murderers when all we were doing was defending the dungeon and keeping the monsters from devouring our clan.” He paused for a moment and nodded firmly. “I agree with you, Fayrah: two centuries of war against the savages has made us savages too. And it would have been wonderful if everyone had gotten along well from the beginning and there had been peace between all the clans. But it has not been so.” He suddenly smiled sarcastically. “Nor does harmony reign in your beloved Titiaka, Fayrah. You only have to open your eyes to see it.”

“That’s enough,” Atasiag sighed wearily, “I thought I was making you both happy, and now you’re quarreling stupidly.”

Dashvara inhaled dismissively and continued as if Atasiag had said nothing:

“My Eternal Bird simply does not allow me to conceive that the Diumcilian system can be just. You worship a god for whom slavery is a necessity and a natural condition. What kind of—?”

“That’s enough!” Atasiag thundered. “One more word and I’ll send Wassag for the whip.”

Dashvara sealed his lips. This time there was no doubt that Atasiag’s threat was serious.

“Father!” Fayrah protested. “We were just talking.”

Atasiag Peykat frowned, and she bit her lip but held his gaze.

“My daughter,” he sighed. “You promised me you wouldn’t interfere. Is this how you keep your promises? I can’t afford to have rebels in my house, my dear.” He turned to Dashvara meditating, “Your brother can be friendly at times, but other times he is wilder than an orc.”

Dashvara glared at him. Orc yourself.

“Set me free, and I won’t cause you any more trouble.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“The fact that I was able to get you, I owe it to a favor from the Council. To give you up now would be to insult the leaders of Titiaka. Not to mention that freeing a slave officially costs money.”

“Give us a boat, and we’ll leave,” Dashvara swore.

Atasiag smiled.

“Without an escort, the slave traders will attack you and take you back. No, Philosopher. You can try to escape by any means, the Diumcilians will catch you anyway. And if you run away, I myself will sell you to the galleys. I, too, have an honor to preserve, Xalya.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. Good to know, snake. Finally, he assured:

“I have no intention of rowing on the galleys.”

Atasiag rolled his eyes.

“I’m glad to hear that. And now let’s get out. I don’t feel like putting up with your sententious speeches any longer. Let’s go and visit my future wife.”

Dashvara squinted in surprise.

“And in what way am I going to be useful for visiting your future wife, Eminence?”

Atasiag chuckled, and something in his laughter made him shudder.

“Let’s just say that my future wife has expressed a desire to see you.” He stopped near the open door and turned, a glint of compassion in his eyes. “Some people still haven’t forgiven your betrayal of three years ago.”

Dashvara swallowed, finally understanding. Atasiag Peykat was going to take him to Sheroda, the Supreme of the Brotherhood of the Pearl. He tried not to show his concern, in vain.

“Come on,” Atasiag added. “Don’t just stand there, and put off that armor and your weapons. I hope to be back before the first guests arrive,” he added, speaking to Fayrah.

She nodded while smiling at him, but then her smile faded when she met Dashvara’s glance. This one almost softened, wanting to kiss her again and promise to her that, despite what he had said before, he would always be her brother. But Fayrah’s words still echoed in his head.

‘I have friends who have never wielded a weapon, friends who are passionate about poetry, painting, and music… They are innocent and good people who love me without lecturing me about conduct and stupid honor laws. This is my life. A quiet and happy life.’

Fayrah obviously did not consider her brother as an innocent and good person.

Innocent, surely not, he admitted. But I am as good as I can be, sister. And it’s not always easy to be. Anyway, what the hell, every Xalya does what he thinks is right. May you be happy with your new family…

Dashvara breathed in. He could not have imagined a more catastrophic encounter. After a quick glance at her splendid dress and silver necklace, he nodded briefly before walking out of the living room behind Atasiag Peykat, as dignified as he could. He could not act less coldly.