The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Advance,’ ordered Dun-Cadal. ‘And don’t speak until he addresses you.’

  There would be no need for words. Only his deed, quick and precise, would count. Behind the curtain, the shadow bent over. The steward beckoned them to follow him.

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he announced loudly. ‘General Daermon, returned from the Saltmarsh and his young protégé.’

  ‘Have you brought back a son?’ a voice jeered. ‘Is that what took you so long?’

  They advanced towards the silhouette, propped up in his bath. Only a shadow, but what a shadow! Imposing, strong . . . hateful. Laerte quickened his pace, coming up alongside the steward. His heart was beating so fast, his brow was beaded with sweat, his hands becoming damp as he approached his goal. His fingers brushed the pommel of his sword.

  Quickly and well. That was how he must strike. Quickly and well, straight to the heart, his blade piercing the curtain, its colour blending with the red of Imperial blood. Then it would all be at an end, the war along with his sorrow. His father, his mother, his brother . . . his little sister. His sweet little sister would be avenged. Tears rose to his eyes. His hand slipped to his sword’s hilt. Only a few more yards and he would be in range, only a few . . .

  A blade whistled through the air to stop short at his throat. Laerte came to a sudden halt, holding his breath. At the end of the weapon, a hand gloved in leather gripped the hilt tightly. The man wore a dark green jacket and a cape tossed over his shoulders, whose hood covered his head. His face was nothing but a patch of darkness from which a deep quiet voice emanated.

  ‘Peace, Daermon.’

  Laerte tried to detect some trace of humanity in the voice. His attacker only had to make a single move, just one, and it really would all be over. The boy resigned himself to releasing his sword out of fear of immediate decapitation. For the first time – having seen battle, experienced fear, fled from Imperial and rebel troops alike in the Saltmarsh – for the first time, he realized he was facing death. He was forced to admit that, on seeing it so close, he was not ready to confront it. A tear appeared at the corner of his eye.

  Was he going to die here without honouring his family’s memory? Without putting an end to this war? Without becoming the greatest knight of all time?

  ‘He’s not an enemy,’ his mentor rumbled in protest.

  Laerte did not know who this man was, but judging by the tone of Dun-Cadal’s voice, even the general seemed to fear him.

  ‘He comes from the Saltmarsh . . .’ the voice replied.

  ‘Ever prompt to defend me, Logrid,’ commented the Emperor, in a stronger and more commanding tone.

  A servant poured water into his bath as he passed his hands over his face. Wisps of steam drifted along the stretched cloth.

  ‘But I don’t believe a mere child who has left his region in time of war would come all this way to kill the Emperor.’

  Laerte felt the tear brimming at the edge of his eyelid. He had failed so miserably . . . his one and only chance, he had let it slip by.

  Trembling and close to actually sobbing, he glared at the hooded man.

  ‘Logrid . . .’ growled Dun-Cadal. ‘Leave him be.’

  The so-called Logrid lowered his arm. But Laerte could still feel the coldness where the blade had lain against his neck. From the corner of his eye the boy saw the assassin step around the general, replacing his sword in its scabbard.

  ‘So this is how we’re welcomed back to court,’ murmured Dun-Cadal

  ‘I’m only following your teaching, Daermon,’ the other man replied in a low voice.

  ‘The lad isn’t threatening the Emperor, Logrid . . .’

  Laerte balled his fists. That’s a lie, he thought. A lie! He would do more than simply threaten the Empire, he could break it, destroy it, annihilate it. One day he would do it. He wasn’t a lad! He wasn’t a child! He had not made this long journey for nothing. But although he was boiling inside, his entire body remained paralysed by fear.

  ‘Frog . . .’ said Dun-Cadal.

  Logrid had disappeared. All that remained in front of him was the red curtain behind which the shadow of the Emperor sat hunched over in his bath. He heard the steward murmuring in his mentor’s ear.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you were to have a private audience with His Imperial Majesty,’ the steward proposed.

  So he left the room without even glancing at Dun-Cadal.

  Upon reaching the door he almost turned round and ran back towards the Emperor. Would this Logrid block his path again? Reason, or fear, prevented him from acting.

  He followed the steward through the palace corridors, full of anger and regret, but refusing to admit defeat and flee far away, in the vain hope of leaving all his pain behind in Emeris.

  When he discovered the military academy and the steward presented him to the instructors, he remained silent. He was taken to his chamber where he was asked to remove his sword. Then, dressed in the grey tunic worn by the cadets, he let himself be guided by one of them to a courtyard in the middle of which stood a fountain. In the shadow of the open gallery’s arches, his gaze met those of his new comrades. They observed him as though he were a curious beast, some of them exchanging a few words. From their smiles, Laerte knew they were mocking him. But he did not react, still too stunned to defend his pride. He had sought to throw himself into the jaws of the wolf, thinking to strike a fatal blow, but now found himself lost, ready to be swallowed.

  What would become of him?

  ‘Come on, tattoo man! Come on, defend yourself!’

  ‘Gods, does he stink!’

  Laerte watched the Nâaga carrying two heavy crates, his head bowed. He kept his balance despite being shoved. He was massively built despite his youthful appearance. His heavily muscled arms emerged from his brown jacket full of holes, a physical trait that owed as much to his cultural heritage as to being a slave condemned to hard labour. His body was continually sculpted by exercises that were both cruel and painful. Withstanding blows to the torso while keeping one’s feet was just one example among many, as Dun-Cadal had described them to Laerte in a tone of disgust. From infancy, the Nâaga learned to endure.

  Stoically, he tried to reach the mouth to a chain-bridge without dropping his burden, while the cadets taunted and harassed him.

  ‘Skin like that is repulsive!’

  ‘You should go wash yourself!’

  ‘The Nâaga are animals.’

  ‘Hit him!’

  They felt only scorn and disgust. One of them struck the slave in the face with his fist and the Nâaga made no attempt to avoid the blow. He did not utter a sound, continuing as best he could. No one intervened, viewing this sort of behaviour as natural, and Laerte was surprised to find himself thinking of his mentor. Dun-Cadal would never allow an inferior to be humiliated like this.

  Laerte believed that he had failed this day, that he had not learned enough from his mentor to confront the Emperor. But perhaps it wasn’t a failure after all, only a trial run; a first attempt which had allowed him to penetrate the monster’s lair. Perhaps there was only another step to climb before he achieved his goal.

  And the lessons he’d acquired during his journey from the Salt-marsh to Emeris had not been lost.

  ‘What a brainless creature,’ jeered a cadet, pointing at the Nâaga. ‘Nothing between the ears!’

  ‘Go on, punch him again!’ urged a second.

  As the third cadet prepared to strike another blow, a firm hand gripped his wrist. Before he had time to turn round, a foot kicked the back of his knee and forced him to the ground. Then a fist landed on his jaw beneath the stunned gaze of his comrades. They were quick to gather their wits, however, pouncing on Laerte and, very quickly, others joined them. He dodged as best he could, striking back at any who came within his reach, but he soon found himself surrounded. Finally forced to the ground, he rolled himself into a ball as fists and kicks rained down on him.

  Laerte endured the pain . . . and he endured the
humiliation. The Nâaga was able to escape. Right there and, as a dozen cadets pummelled away at him, he forged an unswerving friendship.

  The days that followed, and then the months and years, only reinforced this bond. Laerte did not fit in at the academy. He was not like the other cadets and many of them disguised their jealousy as scorn. They envied him, they hated him . . . but they also feared him. He was the only cadet who had actually seen combat. And done so in the company of one of the Empire’s greatest knights, no less.

  When he was sixteen, Dun-Cadal and Laerte returned from the Vershan, on the heels of a hard-fought victory at the foot of the mountain range. This was the third time he’d returned to Emeris and he’d had no further opportunity to confront the Emperor. The war had dulled his ardour for vengeance. Although he had not forgotten his mission, other desires had taken precedence.

  Esyld had found refuge in the great city, taken on as a servant by some of the nobles who lived in the Imperial palace. He was eager to see her again, but on the way to the servants’ quarters he halted in a large inner courtyard in the centre of which a familiar structure had been erected.

  The voices thundered like drum rolls. Cadets from the academy, completely devoted to defending the Emperor and blinded by their education, were massed around the scaffold. Among them, soldiers, male and female courtiers and their servants witnessed the scene with less enthusiasm. There a sharp thump, followed by a terrible snapping of bones. Three men, their bodies slashed, hung from the ropes and swung slowly in the air, their faces frozen in a sudden grimace. Laerte could not bear to look at their blank gazes and lowered his eyes.

  ‘They came from the Saltmarsh,’ said a hoarse voice behind him. ‘There’s no need for proof when people fear a plot. Rumours alone were enough to convict them.’

  Laerte glanced briefly over his shoulder. The familiar face helped to alleviate the disgust he felt seeing such a spectacle and a flat smile tugged at his lips. It had been months since he had last seen the man and finding him here, visibly in fine form, was comforting. Rogant had changed. Like Laerte he had grown and was now a good foot taller than his friend.

  ‘It seems I never return at the right moment,’ Laerte said.

  ‘It seems they never hang the right people, Frog. You’re the one who should be swinging at the end of a rope,’ Rogant said, joking.

  ‘And who would defend you then?’

  The Nâaga didn’t appear to appreciate that gibe, revealing his shining white teeth in an aggressive smile.

  ‘That only happened once,’ he grumbled, crossing his arms.

  His bulging torso was concealed by a leather surcoat. Strange-looking tattoos slithered down his face to his shoulders, following the contours of his neck. He wore loose linen trousers over polished leather boots and a dagger hung from his belt. Yes, things had certainly changed during Laerte’s absence.

  ‘You’re armed now,’ Laerte observed, passing before his friend to descend a small stairway leading inside the palace.

  Rogant followed him through the narrow hallways.

  ‘I thought slaves were denied the right to defend themselves?’

  ‘I now serve Duke de Page as his bodyguard,’ Rogant said. ‘Let’s just say he detected the makings of a warrior in me.’

  ‘He must have a sense of humour.’

  ‘Coming from an apprentice knight who goes by the name of Frog, that lacks any real sting.’

  The day was drawing to a close when they entered the servants’ quarters. Here, in the middle of a narrow hallway, Laerte halted. Shadow and light battled one another in even-handed combat, the torchlight flickering across his features. Giving a brief glance to the right and left the two friends assured themselves that no one had followed them. Then they fell into one another’s arms, laughing.

  ‘It’s so good to see you’ve returned alive!’ Rogant confessed, giving the boy a slap on the back.

  ‘I have some things left to do before I give up the ghost.’

  ‘The Vershan?’

  ‘Wearying,’ replied Laerte, drawing back from the Nâaga. ‘And you? How are you?’

  ‘I’m still not free . . . but being in de Page’s service almost amounts to the same thing. It’s best if that remains between us. Times are complicated. Anyone who says a word against the Emperor is suspect.’

  ‘And what if your master knew about our meetings?’

  From Rogant’s amused expression Laerte guessed that the Duke de Page’s name had been added to the ever-growing list of nobles who had secretly joined the opposition and were offering the rebels logistical support. But Laerte . . . how was he helping his cause? It was difficult to reconcile fighting the rebels, to maintain appearances, with his sympathies for the rebellion itself. Yet he carried on without questioning his own choices. All that mattered to him was the day when he would be ready to stand against the Emperor.

  Rogant knew this. Although Laerte had never revealed his true identity to the Nâaga, they agreed on numerous points. Hadn’t the Emperor authorized the enslavement of Rogant’s people? Without telling him the reasons for it, Laerte had shared the secret of his vendetta against Reyes. And Rogant was determined to help him.

  ‘You’re much more at risk than he is, Frog. You come from the Saltmarsh . . . and from the day you arrived here, you defended a slave. Believe me, de Page could be useful to you one day. In any case, I’m watching out for you.’

  ‘I’m the one who protects you,’ Laerte smiled.

  ‘Little knight,’ retorted Rogant, thrusting his chest out.

  He tilted his head towards Laerte with a mocking air. No one dared to bother him now that he’d reached his adult size.

  ‘It’s only a warning,’ Rogant admitted in a more serious tone. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’

  Laerte nodded.

  ‘Go quickly and see her . . .’ his friend murmured. ‘She’s been waiting for your return for two days now.’

  Although Rogant had seen them meet in secret several times, Laerte was certain that the Nâaga did not know much about her. The boy had never spoken to him about his life before arriving in Emeris. And still less about Esyld. But Rogante must have guessed that she counted more for Laerte than anything in this world. He therefore had no qualms about cutting short their conversation. His friend knew him well. Laerte was indeed anxious to see her again after his prolonged absence.

  His heart racing, he followed the hallways that still separated him from his beloved.

  How overjoyed he had been when, two years previously, he had glimpsed her familiar silhouette in one of the palace gardens. She had just joined her father in Emeris and was working as a servant at the Imperial court.

  She was his vessel in a raging sea, the only person capable of keeping him afloat. He had told her everything . . . even what he intended to do, when he was ready.

  When he opened the door to the little room, ducking his head slightly to pass through the arched door frame, he didn’t even bother to check if anyone had followed him. He had waited too long.

  She was there, her hands joined before her, her hair delicately arranged with blue ribbons. The pale light of day, which entered in a single beam through a skylight, wreathed her face in a diaphanous veil. In the corner was a plain bed with a rickety table beside it. Esyld was the light guiding his path. He did not say a word, quietly closing the door behind him. And when she turned towards him, her lips formed a relieved smile.

  ‘At last,’ she said simply.

  ‘The journey was longer than planned . . .’

  He approached her hesitantly. His hands were damp. She had grown even more beautiful since the last time they met. Her features were more refined. She was a woman now. He did not dare to touch her. It was she who pressed herself against him, resting her head against his shoulder. The scent of her curled hair intoxicated him.

  ‘My proud little lord,’ she said. ‘You took so long returning since the news of your victory at the foot of the Vershan reached us.�
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  ‘I came as quickly as I could . . . It’s only been two hours since we arrived. As soon as Dun-Cadal took his leave, I came to see you.’

  ‘Won’t he come looking for you?’ Esyld worried.

  ‘He’s in Mildrel’s arms right now,’ smiled Laerte.

  ‘And you’re in mine . . .’

  His smile faded as his gaze plunged into hers. Very slowly, he bent his head and their lips brushed in a restrained kiss.

  ‘You must not stay long,’ she warned him in a murmur. ‘You should report to the academy before someone notices your absence.’

  She slowly drew away from him, avoiding his eyes. Surprised, Laerte remained silent for an instant. Was she not happy to see him again, to be waxing hot and cold in this fashion?

  ‘They’re hanging people now . . .’

  ‘I’m Dun-Cadal’s apprentice. The old blowhard will protect me, don’t worry,’ he tried to reassure her.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ she asked angrily.

  She turned her back on him, her fists balled at her hips, and she sighed bitterly.

  ‘My father and I agreed not to tell Meurnau anything about you. To pretend you did not survive . . . but you should have returned to the Saltmarsh. It’s far too dangerous here.’

  They had discussed this more than once but Laerte had always been adamant. He recalled his last visits to Aëd’s Watch. All those people talking about him as if he were an entirely different person. Ever since then, his confidence in Meurnau had died.

  ‘Meurnau has made me a symbol, I’m no use to him alive. He’s leading his rebellion,’ Laerte said. ‘So on the contrary, I’m much safer here. Whatever else might be said about him, Dun-Cadal looks after me well. I’ve learned a lot with him.’

  ‘Just a year ago, you hated him,’ noted Esyld with a small laugh.

  She was mocking him. But could he deny that he’d had a change of heart concerning his mentor? Sometimes he defended him now.

  ‘That’s still the case. I’m only using him to become strong enough to kill the Emperor,’ he justified himself.

  ‘Kill the Emperor . . .’ she sighed. ‘Well then, do it, if you’ve learned so much from your beloved general.’