The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  10

  LOGRID

  Don’t ever forget, Dun-Cadal!

  Don’t ever forget where you came from

  Or how you became a general.

  It was not due, in any way,

  To your sense of honour.

  They had returned to Emeris covered in new glory. Kapernevic had been saved, its terrible red dragon slain and rumours flew about the identity of the hero who had accomplished this feat. Although few people knew the name of the exemplary knight whose skill had brought down a legendary monster, the cadets at the military academy suspected it was one of their own. One who, even when present among them, remained a shadow. The mysterious Frog, the only cadet who had actually seen a battlefield, and who had very nearly received honours from Emperor Asham Ivani Reyes for his deeds.

  For each time the lad returned to classes, taking part in lessons on fencing, mastery of the animus, or strategy, he demonstrated the skills and progress acquired through his experience of war itself. Was it because of his obvious superiority that he preferred to keep his distance from the others? He did not seem to have a single friend. Truth be told, the young nobles who were in the same year at the academy regarded him with envy and jealousy, but also fear. Who could say what this Frog, who served with the legendary General Daermon, was capable of?

  A dragon had fallen at Kapernevic. The fact that this brilliant man and his apprentice had taken part in the battle was hardly surprising. And the idea that Frog might have used the animus to bring the beast down, however unlikely given the difficulty of the feat, was nevertheless taken seriously. Wherever they went, word of their exploits, even in defeat, echoed around the hallways of the Imperial palace. All on their own, those two might just win this war . . .

  The cadet who was holding his sword with a firm grip in the academy’s great courtyard could not rid his mind of this idea. Opposite him, Frog was staring at him with a keen gaze which never wavered but clung to its prey and took note of the slightest reaction. Forming a circle around the pair, their comrades watched them with apprehension. The courses in duelling allowed them to put into practice what they had learned in theory, and most of them took part with enthusiasm. Except when Frog was around.

  ‘Engage!’ ordered the instructor in the midst of the cadets.

  The blades immediately crossed with a sharp clang. Leaning against a column with his arms crossed, Dun-Cadal watched his apprentice defeat his opponent with ease. After just a few attacks, he had the other boy on the ground, having disarmed him with a flick of the wrist before sweeping him off his feet with a movement of his leg. As if to sign his work, he let the point of his sword brush beneath his victim’s right eye. Blood welled from the thin wound and the cadet didn’t dare wipe it away with the back of his sleeve. There was no applause; not a sound except for the rustling of the wind in the trees bordering the inner courtyard. The cadet rose up on his elbows and gulped, his belly knotted. Frog stood over him in silence, his blade pointed at the other boy’s throat. His gaze held no emotion, his posture alone demanding respect.

  ‘Good. All of you saw the manner in which Frog won this duel,’ the instructor said, advancing into the middle of the circle, hands on his hips. ‘He’d already won, even before their blades met. Why is that, do you think?’

  Because he will be the greatest of them all, Dun-Cadal thought with a faint smile before leaving, striding down the academy’s long hallways until he reached the other courtyard where the fountain stood. He’d found Frog here, with his face bruised after a fight, the first time they had arrived in Emeris together. He looked at the fountain pensively, disturbed by a slight sense of remorse. Hadn’t Frog slain a red dragon on his own? So why did he still feel a need to keep an eye on the lad whenever he had the chance? Perhaps to congratulate himself for having discovered him, alone out there in the Saltmarsh. The lad was a rough diamond, waiting only to be cut in order to become a gem. Or else . . . was he still worried about his pupil’s well-being?

  ‘The gods watch over him, General, be certain of that. But they alone know what role they have assigned to him in this ordeal which is our life.’

  He had been walking in the palace corridors for more than an hour, worrying over whether or not to go see Mildrel. He’d left that morning after another argument, and while he was ready to hold her tightly in his arms again, he feared that first she would force him to apologise. Which was something he refused to do. Whatever his feelings for her, she chose to remain a courtesan. So he continued walking . . . until he finally pushed opened the heavy doors of the cathedral of the gods.

  ‘I pray for him, every day . . .’ Dun-Cadal confided.

  ‘As we pray for all the soldiers waging this war against the rebels,’ said the bishop, sitting beside him with a smile.

  On the pillars that ran along the choir of the cathedral were statues with fixed faces, representing men and women dressed in long togas with no details that might distinguish them from ordinary mortals. Here, the gods wore similar faces to those of men, their divine character indicated only by their inordinate size. Near the stone altar, illuminated by the light shining through an immense circular stained-glass window, empty wooden pews stood in perfect alignments. In the front row, Dun-Cadal had engaged in private prayer before the Bishop of Emeris, wearing a large white-and-gold toga and a red headdress that fell to his shoulders, came and sat down to his right. His grey face was covered with deep wrinkles and fine white hairs like silken threads dangled down the nape of his neck. Their tips brushed against his robe’s vast rigid collar, which was dyed violet. With one brown-spotted hand, he patted the general’s shoulder in a fatherly manner.

  ‘And I pray in particular for you, my old friend.’

  When he first arrived in Emeris as a youth, Dun-Cadal had sought refuge here on many occasions, in moments of doubt, weakness, or fear. It was thanks to his faith that he had followed his peculiar path to glory. And for good reason. The bishop was named Anvelin Evgueni Reyes and the current Emperor was his nephew. If the man hadn’t seen some hidden promise in Dun-Cadal when he was a mere boy, he would never have been presented at court, would never have saved the life of the young Asham Ivani, and would never have followed his initial career as a bodyguard . . . or become the first Hand.

  ‘No one knows what the gods have foreseen,’ the old man continued. ‘There are difficult ordeals ahead, but to help you through them, I suspect they have granted you this boy’s assistance.’

  ‘He’s worth more than that,’ replied Dun-Cadal without animosity, as if he were simply stating the truth.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I believe rather that the gods have sent him to me so he can win this war. And protect the Empire.’

  The bishop nodded briefly, bringing a closed fist up to his mouth to combat a violent coughing fit. Then he feverishly hunted about his robe for a handkerchief which he used to wipe the edges of his lips.

  ‘Then they picked the right man to teach him to become great,’ he said.

  He stood up, running a respectful eye over the enormous hall. The petrified gods stared at one another. Majestic, their stone effigies remained unmarred by any cracks. Each day, artisans came to make sure of it, repairing any signs of time’s wear.

  ‘The Empire is like these statues,’ remarked the bishop, gathering his hands before him. ‘As years pass, it grows fragile. It requires feats of arms and great battles for its splendour to shine. That’s how Adismas Deo Caglieri became the first Emperor. He was a fervent believer. To the point of launching a quest for the Liaber Dest, persuaded that he would be the one to rediscover it.’

  He paused with a thoughtful air, a faint smile on his thin lips.

  ‘That’s why his dynasty lost out in favour of ours, I dare say,’ he said with a quiet chuckle before continuing: ‘Deo Caglieri wrote numerous commentaries of the other two Liaber, for want of the Sacred Book itself. I should like, before leaving you to your prayers, to quote a passage from the Liaber Deis, along with the commenta
ry he added.’

  For the first time since sitting down on the pew, Dun-Cadal raised his eyes towards the bishop, unclasping his joined hands. And quite naturally, Anvelin lowered his eyes towards him, tilting his head slightly.

  ‘The Liaber Deis says: “No one is as great as the gods. But the gods ensure that between men and themselves great destinies arise. Although the gods are nameless, heroes, in this world, shall be named.” And Deo Caglieri adds here . . .’ The bishop leaned forward slightly in order to whisper: ‘He adds, “It is strange to see how great names succeed one another . . .”’

  He straightened up slowly, turning his gaze away.

  ‘If the gods put this child on your path, it was not just to save your life. He will be the echo of your greatness, for the good of the Empire. I shall pray for you and for this child. The Emperor will join his thoughts to mine, I’m certain of it. And no doubt the gods already know this and have foreseen all, so our prayers will be heard.’

  He gave Dun-Cadal one last smile before he stood, turned on his heel, walked past the altar and disappeared through a small wooden door which he closed behind him. Alone once again, the general brought his fingers back together, closing his eyes with a long sigh. The bishop’s words were certainly comforting to him. The gods had intended to link the destinies of mentor and pupil, so that the latter would become even greater than his master. Dun-Cadal was well aware of his notoriety and the victories that he had, alone, brought about for the Empire. The idea that one day Frog might do even better was reassuring. And trying to keep this thought in mind, he resumed reciting a prayer, almost in a whisper, repeating the same requests over and over again. That this war would end with glory, that Frog would survive it with honour, and that if his own life should end during the final battle, he would die with dignity. He clasped his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut as if his life depended on it. He prayed that the destiny traced for him at the beginning of time would be as great as he hoped. That was the true faith. To accept and to give thanks to the gods.

  ‘Feeble words . . .’ hissed a voice behind him.

  The general’s lips froze as he slowly opened his eyes. How on earth?

  ‘Vain, feeble words when, according to the bishop and all his sheep, what shall be is already decided. If the gods have written the history of men, then believe me, they have already closed the book and gone on to something else. So why praise them? What if it so happens that the destiny they foresaw does not suit you . . . ?’

  How had he failed to sense the man sitting down in the row just behind him, spreading his arms across the back of the pew with a relaxed air, the tip of his scabbard scraping on the cathedral’s flag-stones? Dun-Cadal slowly stood up. Then he turned his head, just enough to see the assassin’s dark silhouette with a simple glance over his shoulder. The Hand of the Emperor looked as mysterious as always, the shadow of his raised hood completely masking his face. His green cape opened over a studded leather breastplate, a belt decorated with several daggers and the silvery pommel of his rapier. But in the black space occupied by his face, Dun-Cadal was certain that Logrid’s gaze continued to size him up.

  ‘I used to think highly of you,’ the general suddenly said.

  ‘I’ve never ceased thinking highly of you,’ the other man retorted in a muffled voice. ‘Only . . . now I can see your faults.’

  ‘My faith isn’t one of them.’

  ‘When it blinds you, it seems to me that it is, Dun-Cadal.’

  The general passed an arm over the back of the pew, turning to the side, and balled his fist. He stared into the shadow where he sensed Logrid’s eyes looking back at him. The assassin did not move a muscle.

  ‘You were good, Logrid . . . you were good once . . .’

  He shook his head in disappointment.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because I’ve been unable to expiate my sins, as you do, through faith . . .’ the assassin replied. ‘Or as opposed to you, I have greater difficulty understanding why we are made. And what I’m expected to do.’

  ‘Unlike you, I’ve never enjoyed inflicting death!’ roared Dun-Cadal as he stood up.

  With a firm open hand he struck the back of the pew. The wood shook and the crack of his palm echoed loudly within the cathedral, followed by an oppressive silence. The other man did not seem disturbed, remaining immobile and serene.

  ‘What about your . . . little Frog?’ Logrid hissed. ‘Have you asked him what he thinks? It will be too late when you finally realise he’s developed a taste for this power he’s acquired.’

  ‘You don’t know—’

  ‘Taking life while justifying the act,’ Logrid continued.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about—’

  ‘What new creature will you create, General Daermon . . . ?’

  Dun-Cadal looked away, retaking his seat on the pew without realising he was avoiding a confrontation. He felt dismayed, recalling the hopes he had placed in Logrid before being appointed general and ceding his post as Hand to the younger man. He had been so skilful, so gifted in combat, so . . . patient. When had he become perverted to the point of adopting this cruel manner?

  ‘Are you going to make him into a new Hand of the Emperor, so that your creation will perpetuate itself ?’

  ‘That’s enough, Logrid . . .’ Dun-Cadal sighed, bowing his head. ‘It’s jealousy making you talk like this.’

  He paused, before adding:

  ‘He’ll be more than you ever dreamt of becoming.’

  ‘He’ll betray you.’

  ‘Enough!’ Dun-Cadal growled. ‘He’s worth much more than—’

  ‘Than an assassin?’ Logrid interrupted him brutally.

  He seized the back of the pew before him with both hands and leapt over it with such nimbleness that he did not even make a sound. In one step, he was looming over the general, the fingers of his hand brushing the pommel of his sword.

  ‘You were the first Hand, Dun-Cadal. You only trained me so your invention would not be forgotten. So that the Imperial family would remember your name! Out of sheer pride!’

  ‘I chose you!’ Dun-Cadal snapped in protest.

  He stood up, shoving Logrid away. As the volume of their voices increased, so did that of the echoes within the cathedral, bouncing off the statues and the stained-glass windows in the choir. Cold metallic words that could still be heard reverberating with each new utterance.

  ‘Oh yes, I was perfect for you. No attachments. A mother dead of syphilis, a father who never deigned to recognise me, but who, in his infinite kindness, paid for my studies at the academy. To be an assassin rather than a knight, you need to follow the path of anger . . . don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not a question of anger,’ objected Dun-Cadal.

  ‘Oh, but it is, don’t deny it,’ Logrid said. ‘Anger against the rest of the world, this world which sees Reyes as a degenerate. Oh yes, it’s far less glorious than the path you’ve since chosen for yourself, I agree, but it’s more effective.’

  ‘I believed in you. I thought—’

  ‘And so, you don’t believe any more,’ Logrid cut him off sharply. ‘All that matters to you are your gods, who never show themselves.’

  Dun-Cadal’s grip closed about the hilt of his sword. And then their two blades were drawn, meeting in mid-air before the altar.

  ‘You blaspheme . . .’ the general hissed.

  ‘You’re so quick to defend those who will do nothing for you. We’ve come back to the blindness induced by your faith.’

  They remained still for a moment, each of them waiting for the other to launch the first attack, without sparing any thought as to the consequences of their duel. Something was pushing them to challenge one another in this manner, old resentments which had festered over the years, a mutual sense of disappointment, a feeling that they had both been mistaken. And above all else, the inevitable confrontation between master and pupil to test whether the balance of power between them had fundamentally altered. But never before had the
y crossed steel to decide the matter.

  ‘You weren’t wrong to believe in me. But you would be wrong to believe in that kid from the Saltmarsh.’

  ‘And what do you know about that . . . ?’

  ‘Because if you’re in here praying, it’s not for the Empire. It’s for him.’

  Boiling with rage, Dun-Cadal lunged forward in a first attack, which Logrid deflected with ease. The second, in contrast, was more difficult for him to avoid. With a sudden lurch, he leaned backwards to see his opponent’s blade pass over his face in a circular motion. He just had time to straighten up and parry a weak stroke to his side. And the duel finally took form, a danse macabre of blades vibrating in the air before they kissed with a clash. Their ringing blows resonated in the cathedral like terrifying death-knells. Beneath the fixed gaze of the statues, they fought one another with a dexterity few could boast of, each looking for a flaw in the other’s defences, until finally they each became aware of a sudden change in their breathing. Time seemed to dilate, their movements becoming slower. Then each of them lifted their free hand.

  The two anima collided in mid-air, propagating a shockwave which blurred their vision. They kept their feet despite the power of the impact, both of them backing away in a cloud of dust. They eyed one another for a few seconds, wheezing.

  ‘You . . . you need to open your eyes, Dun-Cadal . . .’ advised Logrid, still winded.

  ‘About what?’ the general thundered. ‘About what, Logrid?

  ‘About the bonds between the Count of Uster and the Reyes dynasty! About the duty he was entrusted with and the reasons behind this revolt.’

  The two opponents observed one another, stone-faced. Both of them had seen their rancour explode into violence. Their words, poorly formulated or poorly received, had never been more than a spark, a pretext for this duel that both men had been expecting. Their paths had divided long ago.

  They each took a step back as if trying to shake off their rage. The pride of the master pitted against the ambition of his former pupil . . . They had never truly understood one another.