102. Life and death

Sashava’s coffin had been placed in the Crypt of the Feather, and the mournful chanting of his brothers had long since died away when Dashvara, leaning against a battlement on the top of the tower, let out an impatient grunt. It would soon be evening and his naâsga was still in the Temple. He hadn’t even been able to see her. Ashiwa had explained under his wrathful gaze that Todakwa and Daeya of Essimea had gathered with the Titiakas and that now they had locked themselves in the Temple with the Arazmihá and the death-priests to celebrate who knows what event of Skâra. Dashvara had not been able to repress an exasperated comment about the endless celebrations of the Essimeans. He hadn’t thought he’d said anything really insulting, just that he doubted the Arazmihá would want to spend another night celebrating Death, but… his words had offended, and following the captain’s advice, he’d had to apologize. Apologize. Dashvara huffed, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the Temple. He hoped to see Yira pop up at any moment, and at the same time his horrible imagination was making him see more and more ridiculous, horrifying possibilities that, had they been true, would surely have made him forget all his peaceful promises.

After looking over the steppe again and scanning the southern lands, he waved to Atok, and they both descended the Feather in silence. Apparently, the Titiakas had not retaliated immediately after what had happened. All in all, Todakwa had simply defended himself from treason, had his own uncle executed along with other Essimeans who had plotted with Arviyag, and had not even had the traitorous citizen killed, since “the savages” had already done it for them. The other Titiakas had been released almost immediately, receiving apologies and compensation. Probably more than one had known about the betrayal, but none had the power to carry it out now. In the end, Todakwa was still the master of Aralika and the southern and western part of the steppe, and the Titiakas would have no alternative but to send in their own troops if they wished to impose their rules as they pleased… which hopefully they wouldn’t do any time soon, since Faag Yordark and the Ragail guard were now in practical command of Diumcili, and for the time being, they had their eyes on their own people and not so much on the lands to be conquered.

When he reached the bottom of the Tower, the Eternal Bird on the pedestal irresistibly caught his eye. The magical door to the Crypt had already been closed and even Dwin had already left. In the main room, he found Zamoy talking in a low voice with the Hairy. The two brothers paused when they saw Dashvara appear.

It was bitterly cold, both inside the tower and out, and Dashvara thought with concern about the nine hundred warriors who had come to support him. If they didn’t make their way back north and to the winter huts soon, they were going to have problems, especially with the horses.

His gaze wandered back to the door of the Crypt, and in his mad rambling, he imagined that the door opened and Sashava reappeared with his crutches, throwing out one of his killjoy comments like the good grump that he was… He shook his head as he breathed in, suddenly aware that this was no longer the time to be dragged down by memories, and asked:

“Have you heard from Okuvara?”

Zamoy made a gloomy face.

“He’s not well, Dash,” he sighed. “Tsu’s doing what he can, but the boy has lost a lot of blood. We don’t know yet if he’ll survive.”

Dashvara nodded silently, and despite what he had said to Shire Is Fadul, he could only be glad, at that moment, that Arviyag and Paopag were indeed dead and buried.

Rubbing his gloves to warm himself, he left the Tower and was walking towards the Temple with his brothers when Youk appeared like a whirlwind and, breaking the peace of the square, shouted:

“My lord! Ashiwa says he’s already questioned the sibilians and you can go to them if you want. He charged me with giving you the message,” he boasted.

Dashvara smiled.

“Thanks, Youk.”

When he started walking towards the headquarters where they had locked up the hundred or so surviving sibilians, the boy followed him like a shadow. As they left the Pillar Square, Dashvara saw the captain join them, and faced with his questioning expression, he explained:

“I’m going to see the sibilians.”

Zorvun pouted and remained silent for a moment. Then he commented:

“I’ve been told that Yira will be out soon.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows, and he caught himself thinking that the Essimeans were sending him to the sibilians to keep him from rushing to Yira as soon as she left the Temple… Mentally, he rolled his eyes, and preferring not to show his impatience, he asked:

“The gifts… Have they all been delivered?”

“It was made as you requested,” the captain assured, “half for Kuriag, a quarter for the Essimean snake… I mean, Todakwa,” he smiled mockingly. “The tapestry of the Ancient Kings for the Agoskurian. The flute for Tsu. And the rest is still in the carts,” he concluded.

“That’s for the sibilians,” Dashvara said.

A grunt was immediately heard. Behind him, Zamoy protested:

“By all the demons, Dash! Aren’t you going to keep anything?”

“Five hundred horses, is that not enough?” Dashvara smiled.

They arrived at the headquarters. Before entering, Dashvara hesitated and stopped, thinking about what he was going to do. He had made up his mind since he had left Shire’s yurt, but after the journey and the farewell to Sashava and the various conversations with the Honyrs, his new determinations had gradually started to fade away. He took them back firmly and, under the increasingly curious gazes of his brothers, nodded to himself and entered. The room where they had put the sibilians was large, but there were so many of them that they were packed together like grains of sand in a bucket. Several Essimeans were watching them, and standing by their side, Ashiwa greeted Dashvara.

“Todakwa thought that, since these men were slaves of the Diumcilian you killed, you would like to have them as slaves in turn.”

Dashvara heard several gasps behind him among the Xalyas. He himself suppressed a sarcastic grimace and ceremoniously bowed his head, understanding that this was the gift of alliance in response to his own. In fact, he was not unhappy to have legitimate power over the future of the sibilians, for he had feared Todakwa would keep them all and send them to the mines.

He approached the first line of sibilians. They were clearly beginning to suffer from the dryness of the steppe, and their naturally slimy, greyish faces were covered with black, chapped patches. Their eyes were reddened, and they blinked constantly. The steppe was no place for them.

As the Essimeans, realizing that their presence was no longer necessary, withdrew from the room, Dashvara ordered the doors closed, took another scrutinizing look at “his” slaves, and finally asked aloud:

“Who’s your leader?”

The majority remained impassive, as if he had spoken to a rock. A sibilian, in fact the same one who had chased him to Amystorb’s keep and brought him into the torture tent, stepped forward. He did not speak a word. Dashvara stopped in front of him and felt the tension rise among the sibilians. This confirmed his intuition: it was their leader, without a doubt. Out of unhealthy curiosity, Dashvara wondered how they would react if he were to pull out his sword and cut off his head like he did with Arviyag…

Enough of your idiotic thoughts, lord of the steppe.

And he drew the sword. He saw the eyes of the sibilians grow even darker. But no one moved. Strangely, he had the feeling that, if their leader died, they would not move either, perhaps because he had asked them not to. Dashvara heard a murmur behind him and guessed the anxious expectation of his brothers. He asked in a quiet voice:

“What’s your name?”

The sibilian leader frowned and glared at him, but he did not answer. Dashvara shrugged and said:

“With all due respect, I regret your losses, foreigners. I consider myself partly responsible. I know that you have been sacrificing yourselves for your people for eight years. I wish you could be free as we are and return to your home in Skasna. Thanks to the Honyrs, I will pay the expenses of your travel by ship so you can return to your island if you wish. If what you desire is to avenge your dead brothers or your master…” He took the black sword in both hands and offered it to the sibilian leader. “Finish quickly,” he concluded and proclaimed, “On the honor of the Dahars, no Xalya or Honyr will take revenge for the blood this sword may shed today.”

He had surprised their leader, he noticed, satisfied. For a long moment they stared at each other. Finally, the sibilian looked down at the sword he now held in his hands and, unperturbed, replied:

“What do you want, Xalya?”

“To kill the resentment in your heart, foreigner,” Dashvara explained simply.

The sibilian did not seem to take the answer well. It even seemed to annoy him that Dashvara hadn’t simply cut off his head and instead put him in a situation where he had to make a decision. Finally, he snorted.

“What about your grudge, Xalya? If it weren’t for my people, the krava wouldn’t have tortured you like a dog.”

Dashvara had no idea what krava meant in his language, but he guessed it was their usual way of talking about Arviyag between them… Nothing very flattering, he supposed.

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m not holding a grudge against you.”

The sibilian man puffed his nostrils and added with irritation in a heavy accent:

“I tied you to the table myself the first time, and I spent more than a day guarding the door to the underground room. I could hear you howling. And I saw you cease to be a man and become a dog. I am the eyes of your shame,” he spat. “And you tell me you’re going to pay for a boat back to my hometown? Lies.”

He spoke with contempt, convinced that Dashvara was playing him for a fool. Dashvara sighed and nodded.

“These are not lies. But you don’t have to believe me. I’ll pay for a boat and let you see for yourself that its sailors will get you where you want to go.”

The sibilian leader’s face remained impassive as he retorted:

“We don’t need sailors. We are sailors.”

He returned the sword, and Dashvara hesitated before taking it back. Finally, he sheathed it and stepped aside. Turning his back on the sibilians, he could see the faces of his brothers. More than one had an exasperated glint in their eyes. The reason was simple: their lord had just toyed with their honor, chaining it to his will and risking his own life.

Don’t get angry, brothers. All things considered, if the sibilian doesn’t believe in the ship, how could he possibly believe that you’d let him run me through with the sword without reacting? Even I can’t believe it…

He went out and gave orders that the sibilians should be released and the horses returned. The Essimeans did not object to the first order, but the second fell flat, for the horses of the sibilians had been bought by Arviyag from Todakwa’s uncle, and both being traitors, the question had to be “investigated” as to who had right of possession over them. In conclusion, the sibilians would be left without horses.

Dashvara then busied himself with the matter of the ship and was trying to speak with a Titiaka merchant who refused to answer him, who knows whether out of fear or arrogance, when a tumult of voices made him desist, and he turned to the nearby Temple, hopeful. People were coming out of the building. Liadirlá… He hurried over with the other Xalyas. Several lines of red-coated death-priests and disciples were coming down the white steps, chanting with a deep voice in a monotonous, unearthly chorus. Even Dashvara found himself stopping and watching the procession with a mixture of respect and curiosity. Suddenly all the disciples fell to their knees on the cobblestones of the square in such an order that it looked like a dance. Without ceasing to respond to the chorus of their masters, they imitated their signs and repeated in Galka:

“Tush-ba-ni, Arazmihá!”

They called to the Messenger. This went on for a moment, and then suddenly all fell silent and lowered their brows to the ground. On the contrary, Dashvara abruptly raised his head towards the door of the Temple, and his racing heart skipped a beat. There, stepping out into the evening light, a creature of dreams had just appeared. Everything about her was white, except for her hand and the right side of her face. The dress, magnificent, was as white as her hair.

But her eyes are black, Dashvara thought, dazed. I know because I’ve gazed into them plenty of times before. It’s her, Dash. Don’t let Todakwa’s tricks fool you. She is not a divine creature, she is not a goddess: she is your naâsga.

And yet he felt something very different from love at that moment: he felt fear. Fear that his naâsga seemed so… unattainable. Afraid that she might have changed in those days. It was the first time he had considered this possibility: that his love might break. It seemed horrible and absurd to him. And, at the same time, it also seemed absurd to him that a goddess like the one he was seeing right now could even remember the savage who had given her his heart.

Halt there, Dash. Why on earth do you have a head if you don’t know how to use it? Yira is only playing a pantomime. She negotiated with Todakwa to save you, Dash. She saved your people as much as the Honyrs did. Don’t start doubting everything because of an appearance: your naâsga is still the same.

He had remained so absorbed, captivated by the image of sublimity that Todakwa had painstakingly created, that it took him a moment to realize that the Essimean chief was now facing the Arazmihá; he and his wife had knelt down and spoken a few words. In any case, they were too far away for Dashvara to hear them. He also noticed that the Essimeans had posted themselves near the Xalyas, as if to make them understand that this was a sacred ceremony and that they should not interrupt it. When he briefly met Ashiwa’s evaluating gaze, Dashvara gritted his teeth.

Rest assured, Essimean, I will not rush to my naâsga.

Then Arviyag’s last words flashed through his mind. ‘And he will betray you again,’ he had said, referring to Todakwa. Dashvara growled low. Nonsense. Todakwa had no reason to betray them. Not when he knew that he had nine-hundred warriors at his doorstep. Unless they surrounded them to slaughter them and… No, he croaked, irritated. The Honyrs have positioned themselves on the hills. They can see any Essimean patrol approaching from leagues away.

And yet… if he had been a man who wanted to establish his power and his modern civilization and, in short, if he had been a man like Todakwa, the first thing he would have done would have been to subdue the steppe peoples. And he would not have let the strongest people of the steppe after his own go, and he certainly would not have forged an alliance with them: he would have crushed them. As his lord father used to say, ‘The lord does not fear the shepherd: he fears the other lords’. In spite of everything, Dashvara did not think that Todakwa would betray them. Not because Todakwa had improved as a person, nor because the Essimeans could not launch an effective attack, but rather because Todakwa knew that the Honyrs would never submit. The only way to control them was through him, Dashvara of Xalya. Now this one had shown to be more open to negotiations: he had even agreed to a vassalage pact. But control is not just one way, Essimean. The Arazmihá has seduced you more than you care to admit. Perhaps you know that she is by no means a messenger… but, if you have freed us, Essimean, it is not only because of the nine hundred Honyrs: it is also because of her. Dashvara was convinced of that. And the thought hurt him. Liadirlá! How he wished he could get his naâsga out of there and ride away already from the Heart of the Steppe, away from the swords…!, away from the power of Skâra.

His eyes had met Yira’s, or so he thought. Shortly afterwards, a death-priest came and bowed to Dashvara.

“Lord of the Xalyas!” he proclaimed, “the Arazmihá wishes to speak with you.”

Dashvara did not repeat this to himself. At the priest’s request, he eagerly left his swords with one of his brothers, slipped between the Essimeans and climbed the white stairs of the Temple behind his guide. He felt clumsy, and so as not to make a fool of himself, he concentrated hard not to trip over any steps. When they reached the platform in front of the Temple and were only a few steps away from Todakwa, Daeya, and the Arazmihá, the priest who was guiding him knelt down, and Dashvara stopped, his gaze fixed on his naâsga. He was aware that everyone was watching him now. He could not think, at this moment, of Todakwa or his plans, and he thought only that any hasty move might be misinterpreted by the Essimeans… and perhaps by his naâsga. But how was he to be misinterpreted by Yira if he went up to her and took her in his arms as he longed to do and said, Let us go, naâsga, let us go away from these fools? Nevertheless, at that moment, he saw her so beautiful, he saw her so adored by all, that all his thoughts fell into a bottomless pit, and he dared not say anything to her. He remained there, silent, on the impeccable white stones of Padria, surrounded by the worshippers of Skâra and in front of what was then for him more an ideal than a real person. Then, Yira said in a soft voice:

“May your people be happy, Dashvara of Xalya, and may your heart be happy too.”

The sursha bowed, turned her back to him and returned to the Temple. She disappeared there silently, like a ghost, as if she had never existed. And all this time, Dashvara did nothing. It all seemed supernatural, divine, horrible, incomprehensible. His eyes filled with tears, and he could not understand why. Only when Todakwa seemed to be about to say something did Dashvara react and say:

“Yira!”

He dashed to the closing door of the Temple and, despite an Essimean guard standing by, managed to slip inside and repeated:

“Yira!”

The interior was dark. Light came in only through a skylight at the back of the huge building. He stepped between the columns and cried out, increasingly anxious:

“Yira, y-you must explain to me. I don’t understand.”

He got no answer, and convinced that she was there even though he couldn’t see her, he stammered:

“Please. I know you’re there. What you said…does it mean you don’t want to come with me anymore? That you’d rather…live in this temple?”

The silence lengthened. And the anguish and confusion spread through his body, consuming him, saturating him, and paralyzing his movements. Everything burned, even his eyes. Sometimes he felt mortally ashamed, sometimes he wondered what he was ashamed of; and then he realized that he had fallen to his knees on the hard stone and that his head was on fire. He did not know what the hell was happening to him.

It is Skâra, thought a small, frightened voice in his head. Yira is answering you with the power of Skâra and telling you that you are not worthy, that you are a savage, that you did not know how to worship her as the Essimeans worship her now…

A sob shook him as another small voice replied:

Fool, fool, a hundred thousand times a fool. Get out of here and make your people safe. Then you will come back and sacrifice to Skâra and worship the Arazmihá until you die.

Yes, he affirmed to himself. I swear by my Eternal Bird that I will worship her to the death.

His thoughts swirled, confused, in his head. Part of him thought that it was Skâra’s power that made him suffer like this. Another that the death-priests had bewitched him. Yet another that he was going mad. In all three cases, he felt equally useless and troubled. It was as if the energy that the torture thimbles had injected into him had resurfaced to torment him again.

How could she want to go back to a savage who can’t even pull himself together? he chided himself. How is she going to want to come back with someone who was tortured and turned into a dog?

When he thought his tears had stopped, they would relentlessly resurface, and he would laugh at himself and his desires.

Respect the desires of others, before you fulfill your own, he said to himself. Respect the choice of your naâsga.

And finally, creating a poor idea of himself and a sublime idea of the Arazmihá, he managed to calm himself. And from then on, he straightened up, cleared his throat, caught his breath, and began to think. And he thought that, if Yira had been there, it was impossible that she had not answered him, and that therefore she must be in some other room of the Temple. And then he thought that, if Yira wanted to stay, perhaps Todakwa had something to do with her decision. Perhaps he had convinced her in some way. Maybe by blackmailing her into releasing the Xalyas. Maybe… or maybe not.

Exhausted, he was about to stand up when he heard a quiet voice behind him:

“In principle, only the believers of Skâra are allowed to enter the Temple.”

It was Todakwa. Dashvara thought he heard a hint of mockery in his voice. He turned and saw the Essimean leader sitting on the edge of a column’s pedestal, alone. Through his reddened, swollen eyes, he could make out the figure, the tattoos, the casual pose, but he couldn’t see the face. Who knows how long he’d been waiting there. In any case, someone had lit a candelabra not far away and daylight no longer entered through the stained glass window at the back. Night had already fallen.

Dashvara stood up slowly and looked at the Essimean defiantly.

“Everyone believes in Death. And I believe more than ever in the Arazmihá, Todakwa. Your prying eyes have seen that.”

Todakwa did not seem to take offense at the biting tone. He stood up in turn, but did not approach.

“Your mind is muddled, lord of the Xalyas,” he said. “You think you have lost something of the Arazmihá when in reality you have lost nothing. As long as you do not forget her teachings, you will have lost nothing.”

Dashvara glared at him. You are the one confusing me, you Essimean snake. He glanced around the shadows of the huge hall and thought he could make out figures, but he wasn’t sure. His attention finally came to rest on the statue in the center. In the light of the candelabra, he could make out the shape of a pillar covered with markings. It looked like the one in the Pillar Square, but larger and taller. What could Yira have seen in that piece of stone? What did she see in the people of Skâra that she did not see among the Xalyas? Civilization? He let out a sinister, sarcastic laugh and said:

“I don’t believe it. I am sure the Arazmihá made it clear that you were to let her go with the Xalyas. To oppose her desire, is it not to go against Skâra’s desire?”

He was trying to trap him on his own ground… and he guessed instantly that he would get nowhere that way. Todakwa’s smile seemed hateful to him.

“To tell the Great Servant of Skâra that he is going against Her desire is insulting, young Xalya.”

There was a silence. Dashvara retorted curtly:

“To steal the heart of the Lord of the Steppe is outrageous.”

He caught Todakwa’s gaze and his pensive pout. He seemed to be saying to him: now that peace is so close, are we really going to let our people fight over a woman? Are we going to kill each other over a necromancer who hasn’t even expressed a desire to follow you?

With a heavy heart, Dashvara staggered back as if he had been hit. And yet, no one had come near him. It was his nightmares, his thoughts, that attacked him relentlessly in waves. They were telling him, Murderer. They were telling him, Your Eternal Bird is dead.

In a vain effort to regain his composure, he stepped away from Todakwa and walked to the center, to the pillar. He was angry at himself for losing his temper in front of Todakwa, but he was especially angry for not speaking to Yira when he had her just before him, in front of the Temple. Another mistake, he thought. And the more mistakes and oversights he made, the more he became convinced that Arviyag and Paopag had messed with his head.

Strangely enough, reaching this conclusion suddenly calmed him; his eyes were hazily wandering on the Galka signs on the pillar when he realized that Todakwa had approached with the candelabra. The Essimean placed the candelabra on the stone rim around the pillar and read in a quiet voice, translating:

“Death lives in time and time lives in us. In us lives Death.” He fell silent and murmured a respectful, “Skâra shalé.”

Dashvara looked at the Essimean out of the corner of his eye. Kill them, a familiar voice whispered to him. Kill them all. He let out a long sigh.

“I would like to speak with Yira,” he said in a strangely calm voice, “Just for a moment. I must hear her say that she wishes to remain with your people, Todakwa. If not, you must let her go where she wishes.” He sketched a crooked smile as he added, “Death is free. You cannot put chains on her.”

Todakwa walked around the pillar before answering to his surprise:

“You’re right. But I doubt my people would be willing to let her go without a good reason. And even less so if it’s to have her unite with a people of infidels.”

He paused a few paces, then turned again to the writings on the pillar and read them calmly, aloud and in Common Tongue as he made another turn. He didn’t read them all, only a few, and Dashvara guessed that he wasn’t choosing them at random. Most of them spoke of Skâra as an all-powerful entity that grew stronger and stronger with every living thing that was born, for to be born also meant to die, and in a way, Death also meant Life. Dashvara listened with increasing disbelief as he understood what Todakwa was waiting for. Finally, the Essimean fell silent. His expression of religious reverence did not seem to be feigned, but who knew with that snake… Dashvara cleared his throat in the silence of the Temple.

“Thank you for the reading, Todakwa. Tell me, you wouldn’t by any chance be suggesting that I… well, that I convert to Skâra?”

He almost laughed in disbelief as Todakwa nodded. Eternal Bird… Surely he was mocking him. However, the Essimean assured:

“I’m not just suggesting it: it’s a condition for you to speak with the Arazmihá and… for the alliance to endure.” At Dashvara’s stunned eyes, the Essimean shrugged. “Let’s be honest: my sovereignty over the other steppian tribes and my relationship with Titiaka will continue to give me power that you and the Honyrs will never have. But I am not a conquering warrior…” Here Dashvara could not avoid the look of one who was glad to hear this. Todakwa rolled his eyes and resumed with a casual gesture, “I offered you an alliance, and it’s still on the table, but the details have yet to be worked out.” Hands behind his back, he took a few steps across the mosaic-covered floor. His voice echoed in the huge hall as he declared, “I am willing to recognize the lands of Xalya and the northern part as Xalya territory. In exchange, the Honyrs will leave the road free to the Iskamangra Empire, they will give hospitality to my emissaries, travelers, traders from Essimea and… their lord will recognize Skâra as his true and only deity.”

Dashvara crossed his arms and glanced mockingly at the figures in the shadows before turning to Todakwa. He found it hard to believe that this man could think for a moment that a Xalya, an heir to the Ancient Kings, would embrace the religion of a savage people. Except now, Dash, they are the civilized ones while we are the savages… Receiving no immediate response, Todakwa observed:

“You would not be the first son of the Eternal Bird to recognize Skâra. The lords of the steppe may be gone, but their peoples were not entirely wiped out, and I know many sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons of slaves who worship Skâra. I am even willing to allow those who wish to join you to do so.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows. The proposal was becoming more and more attractive to him, and for many reasons. Looking thoughtful, he turned to the pillar and observed the Galka signs without reading them. Finally, he said:

“Abandon the incursions into Honyr lands, open the road south for us, and allow our herds to go as far as the pastures east of the Araset and the wells to be used again. Free the slaves who wish to leave. Free the Arazmihá. And free Raxifar of Akinoa and his people and give them back their horses. And, finally, assume that the Eternal Bird is what we are and do, not a deity. If you accept all this, Todakwa, I pledge to recognize Skâra as a true deity. I know that your people call me the Immortal King, and that some think it is no accident that the Arazmihá was accompanying me.” This he knew mostly from the chatter of Youk and other boys. Seeing Todakwa’s pout, he hastened to assure, “There is nothing immortal about me, and frankly, I have no intention of creating more dissension among your people, on the contrary. But I doubt that the Essimeans will protest if the Arazmihá leaves with me just as she came.” He shrugged and concluded, “These are my terms.”

The silence lingered. At least, Todakwa wasn’t refusing immediately, but who knows if he was thinking about his proposal or if he was already laughing at some treachery he had in mind against the Honyrs and Xalyas…

Suddenly, Todakwa clicked his tongue. Immediately, the figure of a young disciple appeared silently in the shadows. His leader whispered to him, the disciple nodded, said something in a whispered voice, and vanished again into the darkness of the temple. Then Todakwa bowed to the pillar and said a prayer in Galka with a low voice.

Great, Dashvara snorted inwardly. I talk to him about negotiations, and the Essimean starts praying. Wonderful. Come on, keep praying, snake, and don’t you dare stop.

He tried not to get angry, though. Finally, Todakwa stood up, gave Dashvara a half-mocking, half-satisfied smile, picked up the candelabra, and walked away between the columns. Dashvara looked at him, dumbfounded. What the hell?! Now he was leaving?

He took a step toward him, opened his mouth, and was about to protest when he heard a door open and saw the figure of the Arazmihá appear between the columns. She was still wearing the white robe, but now Dashvara was prepared. That is, as soon as he saw her, he let out his name in a muffled exclamation and stepped towards her. His hands trembled as he reached for her hands. He took them from her, and his eyes looked into hers. He sensed her hesitation and whispered:

“You are free now, naâsga.” He bowed to her and kissed her hands with feverish fervor before promising, “You are free to go wherever you wish.”

Gently, Yira drew nearer, and gradually the harmonic shadows enveloped them. Soon, Dashvara was unable to see her.

“I can’t see anything,” he snorted.

Yira replied in an amused tone:

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

Her lips found his. Dashvara kissed her and felt the most complete peace come over him. He bet that the Essimeans in the Temple could only see a large harmonic shadow, with perhaps two joined silhouettes, but nothing more. He smiled, his heart racing, feeling Yira’s mortic energy against his skin, and he thought:

After that, Essimean snake, you won’t be able to say that I don’t worship Skâra.