63. Children will always be children

As the young students approached, Dashvara thought about getting up and going back inside, but his annoyance stopped him. He didn’t see why he should run away from these students.

He looked down at his unfinished top and continued carving. Soon he saw shadows forming on the pavement a few feet away, but he did not budge. After a silence that seemed to Dashvara more hesitant than respectful, one of the young men announced:

“We are followers of the Eternal Bird, and we come to you, O King of the Eternal Bird, to have you tell us about it.”

“Yes, for he has taken our master to the realms of Cili,” another one completed with a small voice.

Dashvara continued to carve, and the silence dragged on. Leoshu, for some reason, did not dare to intervene. A small laugh was heard.

“Oh, oh, King of the Eternal Bird!” another exclaimed mockingly. “Your great god is deaf.”

“Shut up, Rag!” the first hissed.

“Face it, Kur,” the man named Rag laughed. “Is he the great king you were telling me about? He looks like a beggar, sitting on the ground like that.”

“Would you shut up? If you had listened to Maloven’s words—”

“My father knows His Eminence Atasiag Peykat,” Rag interrupted him. “Your king is a wild warrior and a slave, Kur. Nothing more!” he laughed.

Dashvara finally looked up. Rag, with his freckled face and mischievous eyes, couldn’t have been more than eighteen. As a matter of fact, none of them looked older than twenty. Yes, boy, I am a slave. But, you know, I’d rather be a slave of Atasiag Peykat than of my own stupidity. At least Atasiag can free me. Stupidity never lets you go. He was about to open his mouth and say these words to him, but he met Leoshu’s worried gaze and stopped himself. He took a slow breath and said:

“You heard him. I’m just a slave. So now go away.”

Against all odds, Kur smiled. He was an elf with green eyes and a serene smile. He didn’t seem like a bad guy.

“That’s all I needed,” he said. “A king who resurrects, says he’s a slave, and then gives an order. How much more mysterious can it get? The shaard Maloven told us that he was your master too. That’s true, isn’t it?”

Dashvara looked around at the students’ faces. The citizens were waiting for his answer, looking anxious, even Rag. The expectation of their fellow slaves, on the other hand, was more mixed: four of them lowered their heads, as if to better remain unnoticed by the world. Only one seemed more awake; however, his attention was not focused on Dashvara, but on a male slave who was passing in the street, carrying two large bags. He perceived a silent exchange before the young man looked away.

Now those are real slaves, Dash, he thought wryly. They don’t provoke verbal attacks, you see? They obey, submissive, with no more desires than their master’s. Take a cue, come on, you can do it.

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“That’s right,” he replied laconically.

Kur seemed as if about to let out an exclamation of triumph.

“So will you teach us? Our master told us that you were the last king of the steppe. And that you possess the truth about the meaning of self.”

Dashvara gave him an incredulous look.

“Maloven said that?”

Kur nodded energetically.

“Yes. Well, pretty much. His words were filled with wisdom.”

“Yes, they were,” Dashvara confirmed. “But it surprises me greatly that he—”

“Will you teach us?” another boy interrupted with impatient enthusiasm.

“Tell us, master!” a tiyan begged. “Maloven told us that his Eternal Bird would be protected by the Dahars and that you were the one who defined the Dahars.”

“What is your definition of Dahars?” Kur asked. “Can one be loyal to oneself, even in the face of death?”

“How can we invoke the resurrection?” Rag questioned.

Faced with such a barrage of questions, Dashvara began to get nervous. Never in his life had he felt so… overwhelmed.

“Er…” He repeated, as the most extravagant questions continued to rain down. “I… Well… Listen, young people,” he said at last when they had calmed down a bit. “I don’t define the Dahars, all the Eternal Birds in a clan do. And I am no king.” He couldn’t help but smile. “My Eternal Bird would forbid me to be.” He cleared his throat. “And now, I advise you to repeat your questions to yourself in your head, ask yourself first if they are worth answering, and if so, try to find an answer for yourself.” He paused for a moment, noted that his words had been more or less listened to, and finally added: “Maloven was my teacher, true, but I was never one, and I’m sure that with what you’ve learned from him, you’re already capable of thinking for yourselves. You are adults. You can freely define what your Eternal Bird is for you. I shall only point out to you that, at the moment, you are not giving a very fortunate picture of it.”

He tried to hide the mockery in his voice, but his words were explicit enough on their own. The citizens exchanged glances, as if unsure of how to react.

You want a summary, federates? Go plant grass in the desert.

Dashvara had just resumed his carving when he heard an exclamation:

“Hey, there he is!”

In dismay, he caught a glimpse of other citizens running toward Atasiag’s home. He looked up to the sky.

“May the Liadirlá give me strength…”

Leoshu seemed amused by the commotion. Dashvara gasped. But why on earth had Maloven gone to talk to foreigners owning slaves about the Eternal Bird? The newcomers inquired and joined the first five to resume questioning. Most of them seemed merely curious, but some were ardent admirers of Maloven. Dashvara listened with one ear, saturated, while continuing to carve the top.

“What are you carving, master?” Kur asked after a silence. A dozen citizens had sat on the cobblestones in front of the gate, including Rag, muttering among themselves, sharing their esoteric theories about the King of the Eternal Bird. Their slaves were quick to follow suit, but they kept a respectable distance, as if to say “we have nothing to do with these lunatics, we only serve them”.

Dashvara hesitated to answer the citizen. Then he said:

“Exactly what you see.”

Kur frowned.

“And what do we see?” another asked.

Dashvara smiled.

“Well, if you don’t know, my boy, you’d better learn to open your eyes first. Tell me, do you all plan on staying here long?”

Kur nodded without hesitation.

“Until you teach us something new, master.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. Well, I’ll teach you something new: I’m not your master,” he declared. “Satisfied?”

No, they were not satisfied, he sighed.

“Okay. Before I teach you anything, tell me, why do you think I can help you?”

Kur immediately replied:

“Because Cili blessed you with a resurrection and because the shaard Maloven said you would help us be who we need to be.”

Dashvara smiled. Damned shaard. What on earth did you tell that bunch of kids? Did you think you could change the minds of the Titiakas with your words? Well, obviously, he hadn’t done a bad job. But for what purpose exactly? Well, since when did Maloven need a purpose or a reason to talk about his Eternal Birds?

He glanced around at his little gathering. He was running out of ideas. The only one that really tempted him was to get up with his chisel and top, get back into the house, and let Leoshu disperse the crowd. Then his gaze went beyond the students, and a sudden relief came over him: Atasiag Peykat was walking down the street, accompanied by Wassag, Yorlen, and three of his followers. When they saw him, the students were startled and stood up hastily. Atasiag’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“Well?” he said. “What is the meaning of this invasion, gentlemen?”

As usual, he was dressed in a large white tunic, carried his black staff, and displayed the purple belt of the magistrates. Several students walked away with their slaves without a word. Those closest to Dashvara bowed slightly, and flushed, Rag said:

“We beg your pardon, Eminence.”

“My son?” Vorxag, one of the followers, snorted. “Do you hang out with these lunatics too?”

Rag blushed even more.

“I was only curious, Father—”

“Go home immediately. Shruks,” Vorxag addressed the slave who accompanied Rag. “You have disappointed me.” He pulled his ear and pushed him towards his son. The latter seemed to receive the poor Shruks’ correction as if it had been inflicted on him. “Go home,” the father repeated.

The two young people quickly disappeared from his sight. The rest of the students dispersed without even a glance at the King of the Eternal Bird. Only Kur said:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over you, master.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened as he realized that the student had spoken to him in Oy’vat. In a distorted and barely recognizable Oy’vat, but in Oy’vat. He smiled in surprise.

“Ayshat, federate. Likewise.”

Kur returned a smile, and to Dashvara’s amazement, he raised his fist to his chest and said:

“My name is Kuriag Dikaksunora.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and looked at Atasiag out of the corner of his eye. A Dikaksunora? Demons. He remembered the rules so well preached by foreman Loxarios and knew that in theory he should have stood and bowed to the Legitimate. But… it seemed too ridiculous.

“I am Dashvara of Xalya,” he replied. “Glad to know you.”

The student smiled, affable, bowed respectfully, and turned to Atasiag.

“It has been an honor to talk with your host, Eminence.”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked away, followed by his slave. Calmly, Atasiag Peykat took leave of his adulators and stood for a moment, with his back to his slaves, before turning around.

“I don’t like it, Dashvara,” he declared. “Don’t feed the minds of these students anymore: ignore them.” He twirled his baton as he added, “Some might think I’m starting some strange cult… Getting the attention of the Cili Priests is one of the worst things that can happen.”

Dashvara nodded in agreement and was about to tell him that he had tried to dissuade them, but the federate held him back with a weary tone:

“Not now, Philosopher. Not now.”

He stepped through the gate, giving Leoshu a distracted smile before crossing the yard and disappearing inside the house. The old belarch had frowned.

“He looks preoccupied,” Dashvara observed.

Leoshu nodded, but said nothing. Neither did the Mute, of course. Wassag, on the other hand, blurted out:

“Today has been a terrible day. Several ships in the port of Alfodyn were sabotaged last night. His Eminence’s was one of them.” He paled as he added, “And a Korfu port controller was found hanging from a mast. The assassins left a note with him that said, ‘Down with the Federation, long live the Union’.” He lowered his voice so much that Dashvara barely heard him. The Wolf looked worried. “Fortunately, the guard finally stopped those madmen, but they didn’t manage to capture them alive.”

Dashvara bit his lip, thinking. What exactly had Yira said about Titiaka’s safety and Shishina Dikaksunora’s effectiveness? Well… He had vaguely heard about the tensions between the Federalists and the Unitarians, but he had never made much effort to understand them: they were citizens’ issues. From what he knew, basically, the Unitarians were asking for lower taxes, they were protesting the conversions of freemen to citizens, and they were calling for a ban on debt slavery. In short, they were defending the interests of the average and poor citizens.

“Atasiag is a federalist, right?” he asked.

Wassag huffed.

“Of course he’s a federalist! Every good citizen is. Uniting the three cantons under one power makes no sense. The Unitarians want to restrict the rights of Ruhuvah and Atria and leave their public administration to the Titiakas. This is totally unfair! The Federation has always been the best system.”

The Wolf was unusually altered. Dashvara hesitated.

“And… are all Legitimates Federalists?” he asked.

Wassag looked at him with an embarrassed pout, but he did not answer.

“Theoretically yes,” a voice said. “But the Yim, the Steliar, and the Nelkantas are only theoretically so.”

Surprised, Dashvara turned to face the affable face of Uncle Serl, standing by the kitchen service door.

“Serl,” Wassag said, with a clearing of his throat. “You shouldn’t accuse without proof.”

“Boh. I’m not accusing. I’m just making an observation,” the cook assured.

Playing with his chisel, Dashvara asked:

“And the Dikaksunora? Which side are they on?”

“Federalists,” the elfocan said. “As much as the Korfu. The Yordarks… have a preference for a more imperial system. They’ve always been a bit particular.” He smiled. “Good. I started to prepare dinner. And since I thought you might want to dine on something special today, I made you a dish of garfias.”

Dashvara snorted, amused.

“Thanks for varying our menu, Uncle Serl. You cook them much better than the ones we used to make at the Border anyway.”

“Ah, that’s because I’m borrowing a pinch of spice from our dear magistrate… but don’t tell him,” he joked in a scheming tone. “By the way, Dash, I’m glad you’re back among the living.”

Dashvara smiled.

“So do I, Uncle Serl, and you can’t imagine how much.”

The cook nodded to him before returning to his kitchen, and with a pensive pout, Dashvara turned his attention back to his toy. He finished it before the Xalyas returned, and when he saw a slave child walking down the street, he called to him to come closer.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Mun,” the child replied.

Dashvara smiled and gave him the top.

“It’s yours, Mun. I hope you find a good use for it.”

Stunned, the child took the gift, opened his mouth, closed it again, and suddenly smiled, nodded energetically, and ran off without saying a word. Dashvara laughed softly. No matter where they came from, free or enslaved, children were always children.

That night, he kept his promise and read a story aloud to the Xalyas. His brothers were exhausted from working like beasts of burden all day, so when Dashvara finished, he found more than one of them sound asleep. Silently, he closed the book and extinguished the candle that Uncle Serl had generously brought him.

“Good night, brothers,” he murmured.

Lying on the nearby pallet, Makarva whispered in the dark:

“Say, will you come with us tomorrow for the opening of the games, Dash?”

“Certainly,” Dashvara replied. “I’m already in great shape.”

He smiled as he heard a slight gasp from Tsu’s pallet. You know me, Tsu: patience has never been one of my virtues.