The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘We had to do it,’ Etienne defended himself. ‘We had to recover it. The Liaber Dest is too dangerous to—’

  Laerte sprang towards the closest soldier, cleaving the air with his sword, carving a gaping wound in the man’s neck. Surprised, the other soldiers hesitated for a second before attacking him. He heard the hiss of Azdeki’s weapon being drawn from its scabbard, along with the more subtle rustling of his uncle’s cloak as Azinn took a step back.

  The heat setting his lungs aflame did not deter him. He had to resort to the animus to survive, using its power to sense the life around him and take the lives of his enemies. He crouched, parrying a spear thrust before bringing his sword down upon the legs of a second soldier, slicing through his knees.

  Each move seemed so obvious to him, so natural, despite the pain every movement inflicted upon him. He lashed out with his fists, dislocated kneecaps with kicks, penetrated armour with his blade without pause. But his muscles seemed to be burning up as his adversaries’ hearts ceased beating one after another. The animus . . . it was going to crush him eventually.

  ‘Azdeki!’ Bernevin bellowed.

  ‘Godsfuck!’ Negus swore.

  ‘With me!’ ordered Etienne, as his uncle and the old man hurried out of the throne room.

  Laerte was staggering in the midst of ten dead bodies, wheezing and glassy-eyed but still determined to fight. The cannonades were drawing nearer. The red curtains around the balcony fluttered and the trees beyond were on fire. Laerte came closer to unconciousness with each passing minute. His entire body had become one great painful wound. Only the sight of the four officers helped him hold on, feeding his anger. He watched the men who killed his father now lift their hands against him.

  A terrific force ran across the marble, rolling the Emperor’s corpse over in its passage. Laerte just had time to throw his arms in front of face, bracing his legs. It was like a storm which broke the flagstones beneath his feet as it pushed him towards the balcony behind him.

  ‘He’s a tough one!’ bawled Rhunstag.

  ‘How can he keep this up?’ Negus wondered.

  The fleeting image of his little sister seemed to pass before his eyes.

  It was enough to give him the strength to advance a step. Then smoothly, he knelt and hammered the floor with a hard fist.

  A circular arc split the marble, sending sparkling shards flying into the air. Negus flew through the air as far as the doors, his head striking the wood with a hard crunch. The three others tumbled backwards, sliding several yards with hoarse cries of alarm. Laerte eased his effort, seeking an exit with befuddled eyes. Each step he took was torture, each movement made him moan. The world spun around him; the balcony, stone parapet, the blazing tree tops.

  ‘Uster!’ Azdeki bellowed behind him.

  He turned, almost slumping to one side, his sword tip skidding over the floor as his arm dangled.

  ‘Dun-Cadal . . .’ he said in a murmur, as if calling for help. ‘Wader . . .’

  Azdeki walked briskly towards him, flourishing his sword.

  Laerte tried to lift his weapon but it was too heavy. Blood was running over his lips. His legs could barely hold him.

  ‘Why ?’ he mumbled, before managing to shout. ‘Why?!’

  There was a whistling sound; Azdeki was going to strike. Laerte wanted to parry but it was too late. The bright blade streaked towards his face and in the shining metal he saw the vivid image of a cannonball.

  The blast of the explosion flung the two men apart. Laerte sank into unconsciousness as his body slipped over the parapet. He fell headlong, striking the pine trees, his body lashed by the flaming branches. His bones cracked as he hit the ground.

  How long he remained there, at the feet of the blazing conifers, he never found out. There was nothing but the torment of his battered body. Everything else around him was merely a ghostly presence.

  He felt himself lifted up and his cries of pain drowned out the few words he was able to hear.

  He was carried off to a secret chamber. His injuries were tended while he howled and screamed senselessly. His tears mixed with his blood. Darkness took him several times, cold and oppressive, until he feared he might be condemned to remain there for eternity.

  ‘He will not survive . . .’

  Each time he approached death’s door, voices seized his attention and he was dragged back to his suffering.

  ‘Do everything you can for him, Aladzio!’

  ‘I’m an inventor, not a doctor!’

  ‘You’re the only chance he has.’

  The more it seemed he was returning to life, the more unbearable it became. Life was made of pain, of wounds, and of heartbreak . . .

  ‘So . . . he’s Oratio’s son . . .’

  After a while he was able to attach names to the voices, even though he had only heard one of them once.

  ‘Hold on, my friend. You will not be misfortune’s plaything.’

  That was Rogant. And the touch of his warm hand on what seemed to be his own.

  ‘I told you it was a bad idea, but no, you didn’t listen to me. Straight into the wolf’s jaws. And for what? To confront how many men?’

  For once Aladzio’s voice was like a sweet melody.

  ‘Hold him! Hold him!’

  He screamed like a pig being slaughtered. He cried. He only wanted one thing: for all of this to stop, for his heart to cease beating, and for every part of him and his pain to be extinguished.

  ‘You are a great knight, Laerte of Uster. You must not abandon us . . .’

  *

  Whenever his mind returned from the mists, he had the impression he was being hammered with an iron taken straight from the forge. His nerves burned. And yet . . . he was gradually coming back to life. His journeys in the darkness were now punctuated with memories as sharp as the twang of a bowstring.

  ‘Madog! Madog!’

  ‘Let’s see . . . you called me Wader, didn’t you? Why don’t I return the favour? As you seem to like these wriggling beasties . . . you will be . . . Frog . . . I shall call you Frog . . .’

  ‘I love you. I’ll always love you. Forever. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget us. Frog! Don’t forget who you are . . . Frog! Don’t ever forget! I love you!’

  Esyld . . .

  When he finally opened his eyes a warm, welcoming beam of sunlight was shining on his face.

  10

  A HEART FULL OF RAGE

  Thrown into the fire, it does not burn.

  Put to the sword, it does not rip.

  It is made from the murmur of the gods

  And nothing shall ever destroy it.

  The book was heavy, made of aging vellum with a riveted metal binding. It was as heavy as the precepts it contained. In the hands of the child, it seemed inordinately big and its cover was graced with two simple words: Liaber Moralis.

  ‘Now that you know how to read, you need words to nourish your gift.’

  Kneeling before him, a tall man was watching him attentively. With a new beard on his cheeks and recently cut hair, he was wearing a fine white shirt beneath a short black jacket. Custom demanded that he wear a full-length cloak with a fur-lined collar, but Count Oratio of Uster was not fulfilling his public duties right now. In the ray of sunlight framed by the wide window of his study he was offering his younger son a precious birthday present: a copy of the Liaber Moralis, the foundation of the whole Imperial society.

  ‘I received this same book from my father when I was your age,’ Oratio told him. ‘The very heart of men’s dealings with one another is revealed in these pages. What it is customary to do, to say and to believe.’

  Laerte was eight years old today and had just started to wield a sword under the instruction of the master-at-arms of Aëd’s Watch. A great man of letters and an able swordsman, his father deemed it essential that his son receive a balanced education: in no case should the blade take precedence over words, or written works exclude the art of war. For Oratio, the power of pen and blade were
fundamentally linked. That was how leaders should be trained, according to the Uster; capable of defending their cause by arms or by words, depending on the situation.

  ‘You remember how we talked to you about this, your mother and me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Laerte replied in a shy voice.

  He contemplated the book he held in his little hands, hesitating over whether he should open it or not out of fear that he might drop it. The count’s firm hand upon his shoulder guided him to the desk where the child was able to put it down with a dull thud. There, he lifted the cover and started to turn the pages, awed by the lines and lines of handwriting punctuated by the occasional illumination.

  ‘The writing is the work of the Fangolin monks,’ explained his father as he leaned over him, his hands placed upon the desk.

  In a protective gesture, his chin brushed the top of the child’s head.

  ‘Why are they the only ones allowed to write?’ asked Laerte without taking his eyes off the pages.

  The beginning of each paragraph was decorated with a coloured drawing representing mysterious scenes: a man viewed in profile kneeling before a lady; a peasant carrying a lamb in his arms; a knight standing between a frightened family and a band of Nâaga . . .

  ‘You’re allowed to write,’ Oratio corrected him. ‘I write plenty of messages and orders for the county guard. And I used to write letters to your mother, before she agreed to marry me. But when it comes to books, which preserve knowledge . . . then the monks of Fangol have the sole responsibility for copying them.’

  ‘But . . . sometimes, I see you writing books!’

  ‘That’s . . .’ Oratio seemed a little uneasy. ‘. . . different,’ he said. ‘Most books are the work of the monks, because for them books are . . . divine. Do you understand?’

  ‘Because the gods invented books?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed, trying not to laugh. ‘Among other things, my son, among other things.’

  Laerte pulled a face, disappointed to see sentences which were devoid of meaning for him. The words seemed so complicated, the turns of phrase so heavy, that he was unable to grasp them as a whole.

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  Here and there, however, he recognised familiar terms and pieces of dogma he’d heard in sermons at the church in Aëd’s Watch.

  ‘That’s normal,’ his father reassured him. ‘But you’ll understand it as you grow older and read more of it. The morality of this world, what is good, and what is evil is all here . . . The first monks wrote it, based on the words of the Liaber Dest . . .’

  The Lost Book . . . the Book of Destiny. A legend that remained very much alive within the House of Uster. His father had often spoken of it emphatically, and would become irritated when Laerte’s older brother expressed doubts about the book’s reality. No one had ever seen the Liaber Dest, and the very idea that a single work, whose origin and authors were uncertain, might hold the destiny of every person who ever lived, from the beginning to the end of the time, seemed like sheer madness to certain sceptical minds.

  ‘One day, I will tell you about the Book. One day you will know, my son.’

  Oratio of Uster was an enlightened man, ready to doubt many so-called truths; the Liaber Dest always seemed more like myth than actual truth and yet the count would not permit anyone to deny its existence. Whenever someone did in his presence, it prompted the sole, rare occasions when Laerte had seen his father angry. Angry to the point of making the boy fear him. Otherwise, Laerte remembered him as a loving, gentle person.

  ‘Each being . . .’ murmured Oratio above him, reciting the words on the page the boy was perusing. ‘. . . exists in this world to accomplish their work,’ he concluded.

  The count straightened up, ruffling the child’s hair.

  ‘May you accomplish yours, Laerte. A great . . .’

  ‘A great . . .’

  ‘. . . mighty . . .’

  ‘. . . mighty . . .’

  ‘. . . and magnificent work.’

  ‘. . . and magnificent . . .’

  Pain woke him, sharp and burning, as hot as the noon sunshine pouring down from a skylight into the salon.

  ‘. . . mighty . . .’

  He was no longer at Aëd’s Watch. He was sitting in a large armchair with one leg stretched out before him, his foot propped on a small stool.

  ‘. . . and magnificent work.’

  Upon his knees he had a copy of the Liaber Moralis, open to the same page, the same words, with the words spoken by his father years before ringing in his ears. His wounds were healing slowly, each passing day seeming more painful than the preceding one. His body had been broken, shredded. Each movement was intolerable, inflicting fleeting jolts of pain, accompanied by retching to the point of vomiting and fainting. Laerte had come so close to death he had eventually longed for it. Nothingness seemed like an improvement compared to this constant suffering.

  Four months after the Empire’s fall, he could not remain seated for more than two hours without losing consciousness. This time he had simply fallen asleep, revisiting his memories after glimpsing this copy of the Liaber Moralis in the villa’s library.

  He barely saw the hand that gently took the book from his lap. There, in the large salon with sunlight filtering through the long white curtains, he finally met his host. During these four months he’d had no visitors at all beyond the daily comings and goings of the servants at the Villa de Page. Close to the southern territories, only a few days’ ride from the great city of Masalia, the house overlooked a great vineyard which spread before the azure sea.

  Dressed in a black doublet with a long slender sword hanging from a leather belt and tall polished boots that rose to his knees, Gregory de Page in no way resembled a nobleman in flight. Pacing tranquilly back and forth as he leafed through the pages of the Liaber Moralis, he cut a fine figure. He was one of the victors of this war. He had worked diligently behind the scenes, helping the rebels acquire their cannons and capture the great city of Emeris. But what had become of the man since the fall of the Empire? Laerte had not even attempted to find out, preferring to wall himself up in silence, absorbed by the anger and pain consuming him. In contrast to de Page, Laerte had failed.

  ‘The Book of Morality . . . the laws governing the co-existence between men,’ murmured de Page in a thoughtful tone. ‘Based on the Liaber Dest, written by the first monks of the Order of Fangol, and forever lost. Unjust laws, when one considers the place they reserve for the so-called savage tribes . . .’

  He closed the book with a snap before tossing it on an armchair in one corner of the salon. He walked to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel without saying a word. Outside, the warm noon breeze made its way across the terrace to gently lift the curtains over the open windows.

  ‘Perhaps they’re obsolete now,’ he mused, rubbing his chin with a black-gloved hand. ‘There are so many precepts set down in the Liabers, and none express any doubts about their origins. Surprising, isn’t it? The wishes of the gods copied out so religiously on paper without anyone knowing who first wrote them down. And no one has ever questioned their validity. Not out of fear of divine punishment, but through fear of other men . . . The Liaber Moralis. The foundation of the late Empire . . .’

  Laerte blinked slowly as he struggled against falling unconscious again. His entire face was burning. He had studied it once in the cheval glass that stood in his chamber: his features were still bruised, his eyes swollen half-shut on either side of a broken nose. He could make out the duke’s figure but could only fill in the man’s features out of memory. His vision was still blurry, and if he had not already experienced so many of these fleeting awakenings he might have believed he was still dreaming.

  ‘Lima tells me that you can manage a few words now,’ said de Page.

  Lima. One of de Page’s servants, beautiful and sweet with an olive complexion and a prettily tattooed face. A Nâaga . . .

  ‘So you’re aware that it’s been fou
r months . . . and that the revolution took place . . .’

  Laerte gave a slow nod.

  ‘And that you are staying in my villa, here in the South,’ de Page added.

  There was a silence and the duke let it continue, perhaps hoping that his guest would break it. But Laerte refused to speak, instead glaring at the man who’d saved his life, from between puffy eyelids. Gregory de Page looked down, perplexed by his rudeness, before going over to an armchair by one of the windows and dragging it over to the fireplace. He sat down and crossed his legs and his arms before staring insistently at the injured patient.

  ‘You’re no longer a hunted beast, Laerte of Uster,’ he announced very quietly. ‘Meurnau was killed, along with the Laerte who was supposedly leading the rebellion. The people have been told that both Meurnau and Laerte of Uster staged this revolution in order to seize the throne for themselves. Not to establish a Republic. Fortunately, the brave Etienne Azdeki stopped them.’

  Laerte looked away. So that was how matters stood . . . Yes, he’d truly lost everything. His family’s assassin had seized power, and his crimes had all been washed away.

  ‘The Republic was proclaimed a week ago. You see before you one of the councillors charged with ratifying the new laws.’

  Laerte bowed his head, his heart filled with rage. Everyone had won something, while he found himself a prisoner, a broken man who hoped for nothing but an early death.

  ‘Come now, Laerte,’ de Page said soothingly. ‘I’m not your enemy. I saved your life.’

  ‘Why . . . ?’

  His voice was weak and husky, but it was enough to impose silence. De Page’s attitude changed, his slight smile of satisfaction replaced with a more serious expression. He uncrossed his arms, placing them on the armrests of his chair. Then he raised his eyes towards the skylight a few feet away from them, savouring the sun’s warmth before deciding to reply.