The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Your father . . . ?’

  A whole section of Dun-Cadal’s life suddenly fell apart. He tried to reassemble the pieces, but nothing formed a coherent whole any more. The man nodded briefly before lowering his hood, finally revealing a face that Dun-Cadal had believed he would never see again.

  ‘I lost myself, Wader. They even stole my name from me, for years. I chose my path. And I know it will not please you.’

  ‘Laerte,’ Viola said worriedly.

  And Dun-Cadal felt his heart break.

  ‘Uster . . .’ he let slip in stupefaction.

  ‘The man is so completely disembodied he’s become merely a rumour.’

  *

  ‘Like a coin with two sides . . . It’s the same thing with events. Depending on who brings you the tale, the story may change altogether.’

  Part II

  1

  DESTINY

  Irony of fate

  Or will of the gods?

  To give a man the chance

  To nurture his own enemy.

  The first kiss, the first murmur of love, the first embrace . . . A man’s life is scattered with events that will be engraved upon him forever. The first weapon, the first blow struck, the first death delivered. Who can recall or be aware of the moment, among all these first times, when a life found its meaning? The moment when destiny seizes you and leads you down a single path. That moment arrived seventeen years earlier.

  ‘That’s not the right way of doing it, Laerte,’ said a quiet voice.

  The Saltmarsh was under the protection of the Count of Uster, a man respected for his good judgement, authority and clemency. He was a man of letters, able with a sword but so enamoured of the written word that he was known for leaving his blade sheathed where others would have used force to ensure obedience.

  ‘Like this,’ she explained, placing her hand on the quarrel to lock it in the crossbow’s slot.

  No one had any inkling that, two years later, war would set the entire region aflame. If Oratio was guilty of anything it was blasphemy, but even his most religious subjects had forgiven him that sin. It was true that, contrary to the edicts of the monks of Fangol, he wrote books of his own – and not merely registries but reflections on the future of this world – but he wrote with so much intelligence and thought that his words were being secretly discussed even in Emeris.

  The young woman took the crossbow from Laerte’s hands and demonstrated as she spoke.

  ‘You hold it like this, then shoulder it, aim . . .’

  She paused, concentrating on the target.

  ‘. . . and release,’ she murmured.

  She pressed the trigger and, with a sharp snap, the quarrel sped away to lodge itself in the trunk of a tree. Without saying another word she returned the weapon to the boy, a mocking smile curling her lips. She was beautiful, with long jet-black curls tumbling over her shoulders. Her green dress clung to the developing shape of her body, just emerging from childhood. She wasn’t quite a woman yet, but she tried to look the part and as a result Laerte was utterly hapless in her presence. The works of Oratio of Uster were unfamiliar to him, as was the turmoil they were causing in high places. The man was his father, but his attention was drawn by something entirely different. Shyly, he studied each of her features, each curve of her body, with furtive little glances. And whenever she directed her blue, almond-shaped eyes towards him, he immediately looked away, blushing.

  ‘It’s simple,’ she said in a suddenly high-pitched voice.

  She was eyeing him with a sly grin. Laerte couldn’t bear it when she behaved like this: haughty, almost disdainful. All because she was just turned fourteen and he was only twelve. He could still hear his father’s master-at-arms shouting in his ear: ‘You clumsy oaf! Even a girl can handle a sword better than you.’

  In her case, it was true. Her father was a blacksmith; she had grown up surrounded by weapons and had learned to wield them at a very early age. When they were little, she had always given him a hiding in their contests. Now, it was . . . different. She no longer played, no longer amused herself with the same things he did. Other things interested her and sometimes he felt he was no longer included among them. Worse still, she had started speaking to him like an adult addressing a child. But then, if she irritated him so much, why couldn’t he stop himself watching her every move?

  ‘I know how to shoot,’ Laerte whined, hefting the crossbow.

  ‘Such a proud little boy,’ she said with a smile before walking towards the tree.

  She pulled out the quarrel and, when Laerte joined her, they stood there together, not saying a word. Below them stretched the Saltmarsh’s placid wetlands. A few salt harvesters were going about their tasks, on their guard because the swamps a little further away were teeming with rouargs at this time of year. It was the start of summer, when the females emerged from their lairs with their off-spring to hunt. It was not unusual for some poor wretch to end up in their maw.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  But rather than the heat haze drifting above the marshes, it was she who drew the boy’s gaze. When, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Laerte’s attention he immediately looked at the landscape in his turn. In the background, two wading birds were standing on one leg, the other folded beneath their bellies. At this distance, their long slender beaks looked like sharp sword blades.

  ‘Yes, well . . . it’s the Saltmarsh,’ he sighed.

  She smiled faintly before starting to laugh.

  ‘“It’s the Saltmarsh,” that’s all you can find to say about it?’

  ‘Well, what of it?’ asked Laerte, offended.

  ‘Your tutor hasn’t taught you any words to say something more about a landscape than,’ she leaned towards him, ‘“it’s the Salt-marsh”?’ she concluded in a soft voice.

  He smelled her perfume, saw her lips inches from his own, her smooth olive skin. A longing seized his belly, stronger than ever, and he had to force himself not to kiss her.

  ‘What are we going to do with you? You’re not very gifted with weapons—’

  ‘The master-at-arms says I’m making progress!’ Laerte lied.

  ‘And you’re not as inclined to letters as your father . . . What is it you actually like to do?’

  She did not wait for an answer, descending the hill towards the horses hitched to a tree at the edge of the forest. Behind the tree tops, in the distance, stood the wooden ramparts of Aëd’s Watch and a tall stone keep at their centre.

  ‘I like riding,’ said Laerte as he trailed behind her.

  ‘And that’s all?’

  No, of course not. He was lying, anyway. The only thing he was sure he liked was being with her. As for the rest . . . he felt very little enjoyment, if truth be told. His path was already traced out for him. His older brother was destined to military service, while he would one day take his father’s place. That’s how things were. The eldest son offered to the service of the Empire, while the second ensured the succession. But even if his destiny had not been so clear-cut, he had no ideas of his own about his future.

  He was no longer a boy but not yet a man, and it was difficult to know what interested him. Sometimes, he liked to play with his little wooden soldiers. On other days he put them away, telling himself that he was too old for such games and wanting to ride off wherever he pleased. Only, although he felt himself growing up, everyone else, like his friend, continued to treat him like a little boy. Besides, wasn’t she right to think so? He still kept his favourite toy at the bottom of his pocket; a tiny wooden horse his father had carved for him.

  ‘Iago knows how to wield a sword. He likes to ride, he’s a good archer and he knows his poetry,’ she confided to him.

  He had the strangest sensation that his legs were giving way beneath him. But he remained standing, his hands feeling terribly damp when she passed him the reins to his horse.

  ‘He’s a better rider than you and he would have found marvellous words to describe the landsc
ape,’ she added as she unhitched her mount from the tree.

  Laerte tugged at the horse behind him, swaying as he walked, his head bowed. When she spoke of Iago like this her eyes shone with a glow that he did not like at all. Too lively by half. Iago was the son of the captain of the guard, and he had leanings to follow in his father’s footsteps. And he was sixteen years old! And he was fair-haired. And tall. And whatever else he might be, Laerte would have seen it as a fault. Iago was the very image of a handsome young man that no one and nothing could resist. Laerte and the girl walked to the edge of the woods at their horses’ sides.

  ‘Oh, a frog!’ she exclaimed as they approached the little path that wound through the trees.

  She threw him her horse’s reins and ran after the alarmed amphibian. Although her snatching gesture was swift, there was no roughness when she imprisoned the poor animal in the hollow of her hands.

  She let the green head with black stripes peep out and placed a kiss upon it. When nothing happened, she opened her hands and the frog hopped away before disappearing in the grasses in the direction of the marshes.

  ‘That’s . . . nasty,’ said Laerte, revolted. ‘Do you really have to do that every time you see one . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, because each time, it’s possible that the frog will be my prince charming,’ she defended herself with a shrug of her shoulders.

  She came back to him and placed a finger upon his nose, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Who knows which frog a prince charming may be hiding behind?’

  ‘Well, not that one. And who’s to say you won’t catch warts doing that?’

  She led her horse to the dirt path which plunged into the forest, wending its way between flowering copses until it was no more than a faint trace between the tree trunks.

  ‘Frogs don’t give warts!’ she said indignantly. ‘My grandmother taught me they have all kinds of virtues, whatever people may say!’

  ‘I know, I know . . .’ Laerte agreed in an indifferent tone.

  ‘The urine from rush frogs is a very good medicine! And they’re not just poor little creatures, you know. Some of them could teach a thing or two to the finest strategists.’

  She mounted her horse and her skirts rode up, revealing her legs to the thigh. Laerte swallowed, gripping the reins as tightly as he could. He wanted to kiss those legs, let the palm of his hand slide along them, smell their scent. It was a new and sudden feeling, so he lowered his eyes. Not to drive away these ideas which, in the end, were enjoyable, but in order not to encourage them further. He too mounted his horse and with a dig of his heels urged it to a walk.

  ‘Did you know that the Erain frog feeds on wasps and hornets?’ the girl continued saying. ‘It has a peculiar technique for hunting them. Its skin takes on the colours of its prey as it approaches a hive, and they almost accept it as one of them. And then, at the very moment when they lower their guard . . .’

  She tilted her head to the side, directing a sly glance in his direction.

  ‘The Erain frog waits until it is as close as it can be to its enemies before striking. So you see, little count, how much one can learn from a simple frog.’

  ‘Don’t call me “little count”,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Sounds like someone’s feelings are hurt . . . As much as they will be if you arrive last at the Watch’s gates?’

  She tapped twice with her heels and her horse broke into a gallop down the path. Startled, Laerte’s horse reared, almost throwing him off. He wavered between anger and amusement as he watched her escape into the distance. Her curls seemed to float above the olive skin of her shoulders.

  She was named Esyld Orbey, daughter of the blacksmith at Aëd’s Watch. And Laerte of Uster, son of the count of the Saltmarsh region, had loved her day after day without daring to admit it to anyone. He launched into a gallop in his turn.

  His path was already laid out ahead of him, just like the track he followed through the forest towards the town. One day he would be himself count of the Saltmarsh, and he had no idea if he could govern with the same easy assurance as his father, and without being able to rely on help from his brother, who would surely become a general, ensuring peace within the Empire. He would have a wife, and children. And then what? He was content with what he already had, without dreaming of more: doing what was asked of him, without giving more; learning to love in secret, without saying more. But there was one other thing he wanted. To be like Iago. Not Iago the handsome, the fair-haired and the talented. But to have a little of his charisma, a little of his skill . . . and a little of Esyld’s attention.

  He caught up with her in the thickets. She had stopped, her face grim, and was staring beyond the trees at an odd black smoke rising from Aëd’s Watch. When he finally drew up beside her, soothing his suddenly nervous mount, Esyld gave him a commanding look.

  ‘Stay right here.’

  ‘What? Why? What’s going on?’

  And then he saw the smoke. The keep was burning. His heart skipped a beat and his face turned pale. He did not dare move forward although Esyld spurred her horse and galloped towards the town’s wooden ramparts. What would she find there? Laerte could have followed her, riding into the town to see for himself what was happening. But he, the Count of Uster’s younger son, a mediocre swordsman, an average student, endowed with an ordinary physique, lacked even the ounce of courage needed to ride escort for his beloved.

  The hooves of her mount hammered the dirt road leading to the gates of Aëd’s Watch, before she disappeared in the distance behind a cloud of dust.

  For more than an hour he waited at the edge of the forest, hesitating. What should he do? Join her? Stay here? What was going on? He dismounted and tethered his horse to a branch, then paced like an animal in a cage, his gaze fixed upon the town’s walls. He leaned against a tree trunk, breathing heavily, as he heard the sounds of combat in the distance. There was a dry crackling noise behind him. He was just turning round when a slim gloved hand fell upon his shoulder. A second hand placed itself over his wide-open mouth to stifle his cry.

  ‘Shh!’ ordered a voice. ‘Laerte, it’s me.’

  And beneath the blue cloak, he recognised Esyld. Why had she changed? Before he could ask she pulled a second cloak, this one black, out of a bag and held it out to him.

  ‘Put this on, quickly. We need to get away from here. They’ve sent patrols out looking for you.’

  ‘Who did?’ he asked in a trembling voice. ‘Esyld, what’s happening?’

  He put the garment on over his shirt. Esyld placed her hands on his shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes.

  ‘The Empire. Your father has been arrested. So has your entire family.’ She said it without betraying any hint of emotion.

  ‘But . . . why?’

  ‘My father is with Captain Meurnau. They’re in the northern part of town. Come on, we need to hurry. Let’s go!’

  The features of her face were so hard and tense that he barely recognised her. She took him by the hand and led him back into the forest. Meurnau, the captain of the guard . . .

  ‘A girl leaving town attracts less attention than a boy,’ she said, sounding terribly nervous. ‘Someone told them you’d gone into the marshes so they’re combing the area all around the Watch, looking everywhere for you . . .’

  They reached the edge of the forest again where they found a small cart with a covered rear section waiting for them.

  ‘But there’s one place they won’t imagine you would go. Hide in there, we might run into some soldiers . . .’

  The smile she gave him was so tense that he was not at all reassured. She helped him wriggle under the canvas. The sky was starting to become overcast and a rain shower was threatening in the distance. Between two soft bags stinking of manure, Laerte curled up like a newborn babe. His blood was pounding at his temples and his hands shook. He closed them into fists. His father had been arrested by the Empire without Laerte even knowing why. And if they were looking for him, they must want to s
ubject him to the same fate. What crime had the House of Uster committed? It was not solely Oratio’s writings that justified such an act. So why?

  He heard the snap of the reins followed by the sound of hooves striking the ground. The cart began to move off.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t move,’ Esyld ordered.

  During the few minutes that the trip took to the town gates, he only heard the sound of his own breathing, coming in heavy gasps. A mantle of anxiety enveloped him, while his skin was damp and his throat dry. When he detected the muffled calls of the soldiers hailing Esyld he held his breath. There was a tense exchange. The soldiers’ voices were clipped, their tone conveying both authority and contempt. A single word taken the wrong way and it would be over for them both. Under the canvas he gathered his knees in tightly and closed his eyes. If a soldier attacked Esyld, would he have time to crawl out and come to her rescue? Would he even try? Would he shield her with his own body, allow a blade to pierce him? He held back a moan and tears trickled down his face. There were several small taps above him. A soldier must be running his hand over the cloth. The sound became more pronounced and the tapping increased . . . No, it wasn’t a soldier at all, but raindrops. The raincloud had reached Aëd’s Watch.

  Finally, the cart moved forward again. When it halted and someone lifted the canvas cover, Laerte’s eyes were reddened from crying. Although the first face he saw in the dim light of a damp barn was that of bearded man and not Esyld’s, he felt no less ashamed. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the girl, soaked by the rain, watching him with a sad expression. He immediately wiped his eyes with the back of his eyes, gritting his teeth in anger. She must not see him like this. Not cowardly, lost, or unable to contain his feelings.

  ‘Sir, you are safe. Come,’ said the man, urging him forward with a hand on his shoulder. ‘I thought they’d caught you in the woods. Time is running short.’