80. The wings of a Xalya

“This one has a damaged hoof,” Alta observed.

“Ah, no, really, that’s not it!” the salesman protested. “That’s the usual form of this breed. With those hooves, they run faster than the wind.”

“The wind is very fickle,” Alta replied. “Sometimes it gallops, sometimes it stops. So, no, we’re not taking this one.”

Dashvara supported the refusal by silently nodding his head. The salesman sighed. He was beginning to understand that Alta was picking up on the slightest flaws.

He put the bad horse back in its compartment and headed for the back of the stables. Lumon came running up behind them. He informed them:

“We’re still six horses short. And you, how are you doing?”

“We’re ten short,” Dashvara replied.

“Alta is worse than the Persnickety,” Miflin explained, smiling.

“Well, Sirk Is Rhad is no better,” Lumon smiled. “He and Atsan don’t just have to talk with the salesman to make up their minds: they have to talk with the horse too.”

Dashvara and the Triplets laughed kindly, but Alta reasoned:

“You don’t just pick a horse any old way. I doubt we have time to pick them all today.”

“Especially if we have to go to this wedding,” Dashvara sighed.

“He said it wouldn’t be necessary for all of us to go,” Miflin recalled in an eloquent tone.

Dashvara looked at the Poet with a mocking pout.

“I thought you liked parties, Poet. Besides, the ones getting married are the captain’s daughter and your lord’s sister. Surely you don’t want to miss the event?”

Miflin was looking for some argument to evade when Alta interrupted them, exclaiming:

“This one looks much better!”

The horse dealer’s face showed relief. When Dashvara laid eyes on the new horse, he cocked his head to one side with a strange sense of knowing him. After examining the animal from top to bottom, Alta said:

“This horse is ours.”

“A wonderful choice, gentlemen!” the salesman rejoiced.

“Yes…” Alta cleared his throat and turned to his brothers. “I meant that this horse belonged to us. Back in Xalya. The barbarians must have sold it.”

Surprised, Dashvara approached the horse, and at last, he recognized it. It was Radiant, Boron’s horse. It looked healthy. The trader’s expression now reflected concentration, as if he were trying to figure out if this could raise the price of the sale.

“He used to look better,” Alta let out. “He’s malnourished.”

“Malnourished!” the vendor cried, indignantly. “I tend these beasts night and day and give them the best oats—!”

“Tell me,” Alta cut him off. “Where did you buy that horse?”

The Republican immediately calmed down.

“It was a patrician who sold it to me,” he boasted. “It’s a steppian horse of the best breed, strong and tough as a mountain. It can stand very long journeys and hardly tires.”

“I know the qualities of steppe horses,” Alta assured. “Do you have any more of this type?”

“Three more, sir. And a few other steppies no less incredible. Would you like to see them?”

He disappeared around a corner in his vast stables and returned with five horses and three stable boys. Dashvara recognized only the mare, with her distinctive coat: she had belonged to an officer of his father’s. After examining the steppian horses carefully, Alta seemed satisfied with all of them, and finally accepted four more horses that were half steppian. Then came the haggling, and Alta did well: in total, they paid less than eight hundred dragons for the ten horses and took them to the stables of the inn. Sirk Is Rhad’s party had just arrived with the last seven horses and the place was getting crowded. Boron recognized Radiant at once, and his placidity was mingled with a strong emotion that brought tears to his eyes. Dashvara and his companions patted him on the shoulder, rejoicing in his good fortune. While he was busy trying on and adjusting a newly acquired saddle on a chestnut mare, Dashvara kept thinking about Lusombra. Realizing this, he whispered an apology in his new mount’s ear and added:

“I will call you Sunrise. We will go together to the steppe. And I will tell you about Lusombra. I’m sure the two of you would get along just fine.”

Looking around and seeing his people taking care of so many steppian horses, Dashvara’s heart swelled with joy. The business was going more than well.

A familiar voice outside the building drew a smile from him and, stepping away from Sunrise, he poked his head through the large open door. There, in the courtyard of the inn, Atasiag Peykat stood, forming a circle with other Titiakas, his staff of command in hand and an expression of great serenity on his face. Among those present was, of course, Kuriag Dikaksunora, still dressed in his usual white tunic. His face reflected an intense happiness. The other Titiakas were throwing jokes at him in Diumcilian, all traditional jokes to the future husband.

“And, what’s more, you’re going on your honeymoon to the steppe!” a youth cried in an enthusiastic tone.

“The bride is nothing less than a steppian princess, after all,” another interjected, bowing to the Dikaksunora. “And rumors say she is a great beauty.”

“Her heart is even greater,” Kuriag replied firmly, and he flushed when several laughed.

“I already bode you well in your life, Excellency,” said another who wore the symbol of the Yordark. “I am not sure if I have commented to you that my older brother, Faag, holds you in high regard.”

“Uh… yes, I think you did, thank you,” Kuriag smiled, slightly uncomfortably.

“Oh. And how long do you think you’ll make your honeymoon last?” the Yordark asked.

“I have not yet decided,” Kuriag Dikaksunora admitted. “But I will never be entirely absent from the Council, since I will leave Atasiag Peykat as my representative in my position for as long as my trip lasts.”

“You’ve already gone through the inheritance formalities?” a member of the Shoveda said, surprised.

“Absolutely all of them,” Kuriag nodded. “I must say, I could not have done it without the help of the Alfodrog and Yordark, as well as my mother.”

A young redhead hesitated before commenting:

“It’s a shame that none of your immediate family can attend your wedding, unless I’m mistaken…?”

“My mother gave me her blessing by letter,” Kuriag assured. “But the grief that still weighs on us has kept her from taking the ship. Besides, my younger brothers need moral support to… get over our loss.”

Faces were covered with understanding and commiseration.

“A great loss to the entire Federation,” the Shoveda pronounced solemnly.

“A terrible shock,” the redhead agreed. “We can never praise your father’s deeds enough, Excellency. They have grown our homeland.”

Kuriag Dikaksunora looked away, and Dashvara saw his tight lips, which could indicate sadness as well as tension.

“For Cili’s sake!” Atasiag exclaimed. “Let us not grieve on this festive day. Our young friend’s happiness will, with no doubt, gladden his father’s spirit, wherever he may be.”

“I can’t agree more, Sir Peykat,” the young Yordark hastened to say.

“And perhaps we should give His Excellency a little respite before the big event.”

“Quite so!” the Shoveda approved.

“We’ll see you at the temple, Excellency,” the redhead greeted.

They soon moved away, and only Atasiag Peykat and Kuriag Dikaksunora remained in the courtyard. Dashvara finally dared to approach.

“We got the forty-five horses, as promised,” he announced. “All sound and steppian in various degrees.” He greeted Atasiag with a gesture. “How was the stay in prison, Eminence?”

Atasiag smiled, studying him with attentive eyes.

“Exhausting. I kept getting ‘exceptional’ visits, since visits are not usually allowed. In addition to Tahisran’s visits, of course.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow in surprise as he heard him speak of the shadow in the presence of the Dikaksunora. However, the latter seemed to know who they were talking about. He shrugged.

“Even locked up, you’ve continued to do business, I see.”

Atasiag nodded calmly.

“And more than you think. I hope you treat your new master as well as you treated me,” he added, half mockingly and half sincerely.

His gaze rose, further behind Dashvara, and he noticed that, one by one, the Xalyas had emerged from the stables.

“We’ll treat him as he deserves,” Dashvara replied.

“That seems right to me,” Kuriag interjected, before Atasiag could make any further remarks. “Thank you for taking care of the horses: you were efficient. Morzif and Ged arrived with the weapons about two hours ago. They say they’re not the best in the world, but they’ll do.”

Dashvara nodded. Atok had already told him all this, and more: apparently they were going to leave armed to the teeth, with swords, spears, bows, full quivers, and even leather armor. In a burst of honesty, he handed Kuriag the silver purse he had given him in the morning.

“We have a hundred and some dragons left,” he explained.

The elf smiled.

“Keep the money. For your whims. I still have other administrative matters to attend to, and we won’t be leaving for another week. I’m sure you’ll find some good use for it. If you have no questions, I’ll go change for the wedding.”

He bowed his head slightly, and Dashvara bowed as well, though more brusquely, perhaps because the Dikaksunora’s prodigality was beginning to embarrass him. He followed the Legitimate with his gaze as he walked up the stoop and into the inn.

“Well, Philosopher,” Atasiag said. “You have your horses and weapons at last. I guess you’re satisfied.”

Dashvara smiled but replied:

“I shall be even more satisfied when we leave Dazbon. I guess you’ll miss us,” he added lightly.

Atasiag looked mockingly thoughtful.

“Mm… Maybe,” he admitted. He took a quick look at the Xalyas’ faces before adding, “I’ll be boarding the ship this very afternoon for Titiaka, after the ceremony. I need to make sure everything is in order at the Council before Kuriag leaves to hunt legends. So our paths part here.”

Dashvara nodded, and with a moved heart, he stepped forward and gave the Titiaka a strong hug.

You’re hugging a demon, Dash, he thought suddenly, dumbfounded.

But what of it? All in all, Atasiag had helped his people.

“Yes,” Atasiag coughed as Dashvara stepped aside. “I think I’m going to miss you.”

His eyes glowed a little. He shook his head softly and took a step back before bowing.

“It was nice knowing you, lord of the Xalyas. Take care of Yira, eh?” He paused as Dashvara nodded, and he added in a wary tone, “By the way… if you don’t mind, could you do me one last favor? I have a number of possessions I’d like to take on the boat. Some of them quite heavy. Like the… famous trunk.”

Dashvara smiled, and after giving his companions a questioning look and seeing their amused expressions, nodded.

“Leave it to us, Eminence.”

* * *

In the end, only ten Xalyas attended the wedding, and at Kuriag’s urging, Dashvara was one of them. The temple of Cili where the ceremony took place was located in the embassy. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of returning to that place, but… he who pays, commands, right?

The first thing that struck him was the number of Titiakas that Kuriag Dikaksunora had managed to gather in such a short time. Or rather the number of Titiakas who had invited themselves to the party, so to speak, with the clear intention of making friends with the new head of the Dikaksunora family. He recognized some of the faces, but most of them were unknown to him.

The ceremony itself was not much different from the one Atasiag Peykat had performed when he and Yira got married. The problem was that it was much longer than the latter. Standing at the back of the room, Dashvara listened to the interminable sermon of the priest of Cili, sighing impatiently. He could have sworn that the priest had recited the entire Holy Book before sprinkling the bonds of the two couples with pure water. Lanamiag Korfu was still a little pale, but he held himself more energetically and behaved to Fayrah like a perfect gentleman, winding the ribbons, then kneeling and kissing his wife’s hand as if he had repeated the gesture a thousand times. Beside him, Kuriag looked younger and more inexperienced. When the ceremony was over, the musicians began to play joyful songs, and the guests moved into the large courtyard of the embassy to enjoy the banquet. Dashvara refrained from moving during the entire festivity, wanting to avoid any conflict with Lanamiag Korfu. The Titiaka was immersed in his world of happiness and did not even seem to see him as he passed by. Atasiag soon bid Lessi and Yira a fond farewell and boarded a boat with Lanamiag and Fayrah on loan from the embassy that would take them directly to their personal ship and from there they would anchor for Titiaka. Fayrah embraced Lessi, but she didn’t seem to remember the Xalya guards clustered near the dock. It wasn’t until the boat was already moving away that her sister looked up, half-stretched out an arm… and straightened, causing the canoe to rock.

“May the Eternal Bird protect you, sîzan!” she cried.

Smiling, Dashvara nodded and waved her off. He didn’t know why, at that moment, memories of his childhood came back to him, when he was still a kid and ran in the grass with Fayrah and his little brother Showag or roamed the secret passages of the Dungeon… The canoe was already far away when he whispered:

“You will always be a Xalya, sîzin.”

Or at least he hoped so.