The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Frog! It’s too late! Run!’ bawled the general.

  A mind-numbing clamour announced the arrival of a new wave of enemy warriors. They were buoyed by a feeling of invincibility now the great dragon was free. Gliding over the forest, wings stretched wide, it poured fire down upon the Imperial soldiers. If it continued like this the battle would be lost. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. Laerte tracked its progress and set off without anyone trying to stop him.

  Dashing through the trees, the pine branches lashing his face, he left the clamour of war behind without losing sight of the dragon above him. The enraged beast circled high in the sky. In just a few more moments it would dive back down to the forest to unleash another flood of fire. Laerte was determined to prevent it, but he had no idea how. Running as fast as he could he tripped on a root and tumbled down a slope in a ball. The snow braked his fall, but did not cushion a painful landing on a bed of flat stones. The battle was no more than an echo now, the war cries like a distant memory haunting the woods. He stood up, his breath wheezing, his heart thumping hard and his temples aching. He was in a dried-up stream bed which weaved its way towards a wide grotto dimly visible in the moonlight. Rivulets of snow among the pebbles ran up to some oval objects as tall as a man, rising in the entrance to the cavern. A hoarse scream drew his attention and, looking up, Laerte almost lost his footing. The red dragon was circling overhead, craning its neck and trying not to lose sight of him. It had changed its flight path, foregoing the chaotic battle to devote its attention to the boy. Why would it do that? The oval objects . . . could they be a clutch of dragon eggs?

  When the creature folded its wings back to dive on him, Laerte had no choice but to run.

  His lungs on fire, he saw the shadow envelop him. At the moment the dragon’s putrid breath reached him he threw himself down on the ground, his hands protecting his head. He heard the snapping of teeth and felt the powerful breeze that accompanied the monster’s swoop. He thought he was going to die when a spurt of flame gushed down in front of him and almost sobbed when the thrashing tail lifted his cape.

  Then it passed . . . the dragon had passed right over him. He would not get a second chance. He picked himself up off the ground, seeing the monster rising towards the moon with strong beats of its membranous wings. Then it tilted to one side, banking over the forest. The boy brought his hand up to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Damn . . .’

  The scabbard was empty. He had been running with the weapon in his hand and must have dropped it when he fell. Searching desperately for the gleam of his blade, he retraced his path. But in the dim light he saw only the dark blue snow and the black pebbles.

  His heart was beating so fast and so hard he feared that it would give out; his chest was so tightly squeezed that he could not draw enough breath.

  In the distance the red dragon was completing its turn and he had no weapon to face it.

  No.

  He still had the animus, wild and untamed and liable to obliterate him if he was unable to control it. But the animus made anything possible. It was the life force of the world.

  ‘The whole world is like the air, it comes and goes. The animus . . . Feel the animus, be the animus.’

  He made sure of his stance, planting his feet firmly upon the pebbles with his knees bent. He drew in a deep breath, eyes closed, and concentrated. The urgency of his situation left no room for doubts. He must do this. He could do this. He was the greatest knight of all. He had promised. It wasn’t a lie: he was capable of this.

  From his head to his feet he could feel his entire body awaken, from his most recent raw wounds to the aches caused by his fall, from his burning lungs to his fluttering heart. He almost lost his grip for an instant; a tear ran from the corner of his eye.

  The pain receded as the sight of the pebbles encircled by snow returned to him. He saw their strength, their hardness, reaching all the way to their unalterable heart. The roots of the pine trees, their branches bending beneath the snow, the thick bark protecting their trunks and the breeze caressing their boughs. And then he was submerged by a powerful current: an indescribable force that ran through his entire body before surrounding him. He felt the life animating the beast’s bulging flesh, running beneath the scales to the veins in its leathery wings. He did not see the dragon; he became the dragon, sensing each heartbeat, each movement, each breath. The beast was about to pounce on him . . . But no, it was neither stupid nor mindlessly aggressive. It was afraid.

  The dragon folded back its wings.

  He had it.

  Now.

  Laerte opened his eyes, stretching out as if to grasp an invisible rope. He balled his fists and, with a sharp movement, pulled them towards himself despite the pain. The beast screamed, unexpectedly held captive. It opened its wings wide, jerking its head about as if something were strangling it.

  Laerte could not contain his own scream of pain. The sensation was unbearable, burning and spreading. His life seemed to be draining out of him as he tried to bring the dragon down. His feet slipped upon the pebbles. The beast was struggling frantically. He inhaled again, his throat terribly dry. But he wasn’t just battling his own suffering . . .

  He could also feel the dragon’s torment.

  A trickle of blood escaped from his right nostril and the world seemed to be spinning around him. The glow of the moon became as blinding as that of a sun.

  He released his grip, drained. He could not contain the power, it was impossible. His heart was beating so fast he could barely breathe.

  No . . .

  Give up?

  Not here. Not now.

  He backed up slowly, redoubling his efforts, drawing his closed fists towards him and gritting his teeth. He bent his knees, screaming with effort.

  His heart stopped for an instant. Everything went black.

  Then there was silence. It lasted a few seconds . . . a minute perhaps.

  At the instant the dried-up stream bed reappeared around him, he brought both fists down with a sharp jerk before he could think about it. The dragon was reeled in, plunging towards the ground with a final roar. It crashed in a cloud of snow and shattered rock. Laerte fell to the ground as well, exhausted. His whole body felt as if it had been trampled beneath the hooves of a maddened horse. Eyes half-closed, lying on the cold pebbles, he watched the injured dragon. Its yellow eyes had lost their spark, the heavy lids slowly covering the irises. Its nostrils released coils of grey smoke in brief spurts. It seemed so weary. The boy slowly sat up.

  ‘That was it . . . wasn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘You’re protecting your nest . . .’

  At the entrance to the grotto, he saw the eggs as clearly as in daylight. They were the reason for the beast’s fear. They were the reason it had left the battle when he’d tumbled down the slope – the same fear that Stromdag had used to send it against the Imperial forces, when they invaded its territory. Laerte approached the dragon, limping, and the monster did not stir. It accepted its defeat.

  ‘You were protecting your family . . .’

  Laerte placed his gloved hand gently against the fuming nostrils and slid it slowly up towards one of the yellow eyes with its black slit. The dragon seemed to be watching him sadly. How could he kill it? What right did he have to end its life?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a pile of bones . . . and buried among them, a milky-white horn as big as the ones that jutted out from the monster’s skull.

  Slowly, the defeated dragon closed its eyes.

  When it opened them again, Laerte was gone.

  7

  ESYLD

  Who makes my heart beat?

  Who wounds it or embraces it,

  Holding it in the palm of their hand?

  His father safely dead, he had indulged in orgies, some seeing this as the expression of his grief, others his joy at finally being free of paternal scorn. The small world of the Imperial court gathered in his vast apartments to forget the rebellion with the help of gr
eat gulps of wine and uninhibited sex with anyone, anywhere. Noble titles mattered little when you were drunk.

  By day, Duke de Page was considered the most amoral man there was. By night, he was worth flattering in order to gain access to his residence. His promiscuity was the object of public disapproval, although many secretly hoped he would offer them an invitation and an open door to debauchery. He was host to the capital’s most unbridled festivities: the reveller, the court entertainer.

  He mingled at private parties like this one, lithe, wearing a black leather jacket with puffed shoulders over a shirt of purest white. A lace-trimmed mask disguised his face, but anyone observing him would have seen his curious brown eyes roving from one couple to the next. The guests’ laughter mixed with cries of joy and the thump of tankards was accompanied by the splash of wine being poured.

  In an adjoining room, Laerte could hear their unbridled carousing. The memory of Kapernevic still fresh in his mind, he felt nothing but disgust towards the nobleman. The fact that he’d been summoned here tonight, in secret, by de Page was incomprehensible to him, but Rogant had insisted he attend. Leaning against the frame of a small doorway, his arms crossed over his leather surcoat, the Nâaga stared at him without blinking. A dagger in its scabbard hung down over one thigh. Visibly he took his guard duties so seriously that he gave Laerte no sign of friendliness. Or was there something else making him adopt such a stern manner?

  Weary of the noise coming from next door, Laerte sat down on the small salon’s red divan. Since his return from the North he’d barely had time to regain his quarters and sleep for a few hours before Rogant had come to fetch him.

  ‘The dragons are our ancestors,’ the Nâaga said suddenly, his voice hoarse.

  Laerte nodded without giving him a glance. So that was it. Of course he knew about Nâaga culture and its beliefs, and of course he was aware of the significance of his deed in the eyes of his friend.

  ‘You think I killed it,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what the rumours claim. Few can believe they are true, whatever your mentor says. But if there is anyone capable of slaying a red dragon, I think it could be you,’ Rogant admitted with a note of reproach to his tone.

  Although the Nâaga had not meant it as such, Laerte was flattered by the compliment and smiled faintly. He leaned back in the divan spreading his arms to either side.

  ‘There have been no more attacks on Kapernevic since we left there.’

  ‘A dragon won’t attack unless it is in danger. It defends itself,’ Rogant remarked. ‘Stromdag made use of that.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Laerte.

  ‘It wasn’t necessary to kill it.’

  ‘I know that, too.’

  He tilted his head to the side and gave Rogant a wink.

  ‘Don’t worry about your big reptile. You can venerate it for a few more years.’

  The Nâaga remained silent and still. If he felt any satisfaction at those words he was not one to display the fact.

  On the other side of the wall there was a burst of laughter, so loud the door seemed to shift on its hinges. Music could be heard and, along with it, applause which covered the sounds of gasping. If de Page was hoping to win him over by offering him nights of ecstasy he was sadly mistaken.

  Laerte had never met the man and was relying on what his mentor had told him. And those things Dun-Cadal had to say about the new duke were hardly favourable.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Rogant, his face betraying no hint of his curiosity.

  A voice coming from behind two rich red curtains reached them, coming closer and closer

  ‘I’ll be back! Don’t you worry! I’ll be back soon, my kittens!’

  The words seem slurred, spoken carelessly by lips heavy from drink. Laerte glanced briefly at the curtains and, when no one appeared, he replied:

  ‘I didn’t kill it. I didn’t have the strength to do it . . .’ he confessed. ‘But I mastered it, Rogant. I managed to master it. And now that Stromdag is no longer using its territory its nest is safe, isn’t it?’

  Rogant raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  ‘Mastering a dragon means you’re an adult,’ asserted the same voice, still blurred by alcohol.

  Laerte gave a start. Passing between the velvet curtains behind him, a young man came stumbling into the room. With a clumsy gesture he removed the mask covering his face. Wearing thigh boots over his riding breeches he stood out from most of the nobles living in Emeris, who were more often vulgar than elegant. This man, however, could have worn rags with delicacy. His only ostentatious touch was a golden seal ring on his third finger. His cropped hair shone with perfumed oil. Laerte stood at once but didn’t offer him a bow. The nobleman did not seem offended, going over to a pedestal table which held a bottle of liqueur and two crystal goblets. His steps had become steadier.

  ‘In the literature of the Caglieri era,’ he said, slurring a little less and placing his mask beside the goblets, ‘certain philosophers compared the dragon to our inner rage, the one that awakens when the world takes on a real significance.’

  He no longer seemed drunk at all when he filled the two goblets and offered one to Laerte. He continued speaking, gradually regaining perfect diction:

  ‘As children, we see nothing, either submitting or living protected from everything until the world and its injustices reveal themselves. That is the moment when the dragon takes hold of us. But then there comes a time when we must confront it, or it will enslave us. Rather than being prisoners of our anger, we must—’

  Laerte hesitated before taking the proffered goblet. De Page lifted his as if in a toast.

  ‘—master the dragon,’ he murmured before taking a sip.

  Standing in his corner, Rogant observed the scene in silence. He did not react when Laerte gave him a questioning look.

  ‘But, please, sit down,’ invited the duke with a sweep of his arm.

  His guest did not blink, did not move, merely tracked de Page with a grim look in his eyes. The nobleman installed himself comfortably in an armchair by a stone fireplace and, crossing his legs, set his glass down on the armrest.

  ‘Take a seat, Frog,’ he insisted.

  But Laerte had turned away. The game unfolding before his eyes did not please him at all and, although his interest was piqued, he was reasonably sure he would end up the dupe. The duke had gone from playing the drunk to being perfectly poised, like an actor shedding his role after taking a curtain call.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he asked Rogant, raising his chin towards him.

  ‘Calm down, Frog . . .’ his friend simply replied.

  ‘I’ve taken off my mask,’ intervened de Page, pointing to the one he’d dropped on the pedestal table. ‘I hoped to win your trust. Our interview requires frankness. And it’s an entirely informal interview, so I beg you . . .’ He stretched out a hand towards the red divan. ‘Take a seat . . . and let us exchange a few thoughts.’

  Rogant’s expression remained severe, and the duke’s affable.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About ourselves,’ de Page replied at once, looking Laerte in the eye.

  Laerte sat down slowly, masking his curiosity behind an unfriendly expression.

  ‘As far as I know, with all due respect, my lord, we have nothing in common.’

  The duke nodded his head, looking down at his full glass. A woman’s cry of joy rang out loudly, before fading beneath a round of applause.

  ‘Perhaps,’ conceded de Page. ‘Or perhaps we are both lost in a world that does not want us. Perhaps we have each chosen a disguise in order to fit in.’

  Laerte’s fingers instinctively stiffened on his thighs. The idea that he could be unmasked had never crossed his mind, so obsessed was he with his ultimate goal. He sought to contain his fear and, hoping to hide his distress, he bent his head forward. If de Page noticed he made no comment.

  ‘I can imagine how difficult it must be,
not to feel guilty when fighting those who were one’s own people,’ the duke continued, turning the base of his goblet between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Is my loyalty to the Empire in doubt?’ enquired Laerte tonelessly.

  ‘No more than my own.’

  They eyed one another without saying anything more. Next door, violins had started playing a ritornello, punctuated by much laughter and handclapping. De Page raised his eyes to the closed door.

  ‘No more than theirs is. The people out there fucking, drinking and wearing their finest clothes as they await the fall. But they prefer to remain masked out of fear that someone will recognise them . . . and expose their vices. Why should it matter to them? Everyone knows my vices: I’m the infamous pervert. Always have been and always will be. My father certainly told me that often enough. And yours? Did you know him, in the Saltmarsh?’

  ‘My sincere condolences,’ Laerte evaded the question curtly.

  De Page pretended to take a sip and replaced the goblet on the armrest of his chair.

  ‘What politeness. If you had known my father you wouldn’t speak of sincerity. He was a pig. An intelligent pig, full of malice and political cunning, but a pig all the same. Anyway . . .’ He shook his head with a faint smile. ‘We’re not here to speak of the dead, but about the future,’ he said in a brighter tone. ‘I heard that General Dun-Cadal has insisted on you taking your oath soon.’

  Laerte did not blink but his throat had suddenly gone dry. He did not take his eyes off de Page, looking for any hint of duplicity.

  ‘I hear a lot of things. Information flows as easily as the wine at my parties,’ he explained to head off any question. ‘Congratulations, you will soon be a knight. And since rumour also says the rebels are approaching the Imperial city itself, you’ll be on the front line. Your origins will no longer be a cause for suspicion.’

  ‘Suspicion?’ Laerte hissed.

  ‘The noose is tightening around the conspirators. Particularly those who come from your region, whom His Imperial Majesty deigned to welcome in our beautiful city.’