The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Forgive me, but I overheard part of your conversation, and—’

  ‘And what?’ murmured Laerte, his voice suddenly stern.

  He narrowed his eyes, his expression ominous.

  ‘Who is Esyld?’

  ‘That doesn’t concern you,’ he replied.

  He took his cape and began to fold it.

  ‘She’s going to marry Balian Azdeki?’ Viola persisted. ‘You knew her in the Saltmarsh, is that it?’

  Laerte’s movements became brusque and he tossed the cape to a chair, annoyed.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  There was silence. Viola felt a hollowness deep in her belly, along with an inexpressible sorrow which she quelled as best she could.

  ‘The wedding will take place before the festivities begin . . . an overture to the main event,’ she declared in a shaky voice. ‘If you try anything at that moment then all we’ve worked for will be for nothing.’

  He shot her a black look.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I need to do,’ he snapped.

  ‘No, of course not,’ agreed Viola. ‘You’re a man. While I’m only a young woman, barely out of childhood . . .’

  For the first time in her presence, Laerte looked down.

  ‘Laerte?’ she said quietly.

  He replied with a strangely sad gaze. How she would have liked to go and nestle against him, be with him . . . try to make his sorrow evaporate with the heat of her body.

  ‘I’m next door if ever you . . . umm, if you want to talk about . . . umm, well, whatever you like.’

  He neither moved nor uttered a single word. He watched her close the door behind her without calling her back.

  ‘I’m only a young woman, barely out of childhood.’

  He sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, wondering how he’d come to this. He recalled how powerfully he’d resented those who’d seen him as a child, incapable of succeeding at anything. And now he was behaving exactly like them. Although Viola was twenty, he still regarded her as a young girl.

  She had been fifteen when he met her for the first time.

  ‘You’re a knight?’ she had asked, seated at a desk with a pile of open books before her.

  She had pretty freckles sprinkled across her still chubby cheeks, over skin as white as snow, and there was a mischievous gleam in her deep green eyes. He had not replied. He was there to meet de Page after years of wandering. He had had no time for a child. He had just returned to the villa, stronger than ever, ready to satisfy his desire for revenge. And now, nearly six years later, here he was. Sitting on the edge of a bed, in the gentle night-time warmth of Masalia.

  He let himself fall back, his heart an open wound. Esyld, he thought, still loved him. Azdeki was holding her prisoner, that was it. He was threatening her and she had been forced to lie to him. He could not stop repeating her words to himself. Spoken with conviction in her voice . . . He struggled to find the slightest doubt, the slightest weakness, the slightest word that would have suggested the opposite. Just a hint . . . that actually meant ‘I love you’.

  Gradually, he drifted off to sleep.

  Quiet reigned within the house. The lamps in the salon slowly consumed their oil. On the divan, Dun-Cadal looked wistfully at the empty pitcher on the low table. Wearily he looked down at his hands. Dark veins bulged beneath his spotted skin. He slowly lifted his right hand and held it out before him. When it shook with tremors, he gritted his teeth. So this was what he had become . . . an unsteady body . . .

  ‘“Rest assured,”’ he muttered, ‘“that in Masalia you shall find what you seek.”’

  He had come to Masalia seeking death. Instead he had found what he had been trying to escape. Worse still, the life he’d been so proud of had been nothing but an enormous lie.

  When the sun began to rise over the port city, Dun-Cadal was in the kitchen, standing by the table. In the middle lay a sword rolled up in an old blanket. He had never dared seize hold of it. Eraëd had hung from the belts of the greatest Emperors and while he had expressed doubts about its powers, never having witnessed them personally, he had been unable to bring himself to wield it. Out of respect for those he had sworn to serve . . .

  With a quick, nervous gesture he unwrapped the cloth, revealing the glittering blade. His fingers hovered a few inches from the golden hilt. Who was he to let himself touch it? The man he’d sworn to protect had destroyed him. So who was he to allow himself to take up his Emperor’s sword?

  If only it were not a vestige of the Empire . . . and what an Empire it had been: one of betrayals, of hatreds, of massacres and of corruption.

  He finally made up his mind and, trembling, went out into the courtyard, his damp hand gripping the rapier’s hilt. As soon as he set his foot upon the gravel, he swung it round, almost letting go several times. There was nothing natural about his jerky movements; they were a symptom of his need for alcohol. Frustrated, he sought to parry the blows of imaginary enemies and struck at the empty space before him. But his moves were imprecise and he fell to his knees three times, cursing himself between his teeth. His sword arm twitched involuntarily and tears rose in his eyes. Had he lost all of his skills?

  ‘You’re trying to go too fast,’ commented a voice from the doorway.

  Dun-Cadal glanced briefly over his shoulder. Laerte was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. It was possible the younger man had been there for a while, watching him make a fool of himself.

  ‘Your footing’s all wrong and you’re performing each move too quickly,’ Laerte continued in an oddly gentle voice.

  Dun-Cadal stood still, watching him approach, and when he drew near, sought to catch his eye. But Laerte was staring at the rapier. He took hold of Dun-Cadal’s wrist and helped him keep the sword up, straight in front of him, preventing his arm from trembling.

  ‘Your body should always be straight, the legs very slightly bent to maintain a good balance,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your leg is stretched out too far. If a blade doesn’t cut it, a club will break it . . .’

  Finally, they exchanged a glance. Laerte could not bear it. How ravaged Dun-Cadal’s face looked to him, with sorrow weighing down his features, and huge, dark bags beneath his eyes.

  ‘A great knight once taught me that,’ confessed Laerte as he stepped back. ‘I don’t know if he ever thought I was a good student, or if he was ever proud of the effort I made to improve, day after day.’

  He walked slowly towards the house.

  ‘But if I believed I hated him, I have no doubt it was because of what he represented, not what he was. I’m sure of that . . . today.’

  He had just reached the front door step when Dun-Cadal’s hoarse voice murmured:

  ‘Frog . . . ?’

  It was the first time since they had met again here in Masalia that he had said the nickname without animosity. Laerte turned. His mentor was standing, having set the sword on the ground. Eraëd sparkled on the gravel in the early morning light.

  ‘. . . is it you?’ asked Dun-Cadal, with a lump in his throat.

  He seemed so tired, the corner of his eyes wrinkling, and there was a gleam of brimming tears in his eyes.

  ‘So it is you, Frog.’

  Laerte did not reply. He understood the meaning of the words and felt their weight in his heart. With heavy, clumsy steps, Dun-Cadal approached. When they found themselves facing one another, the old man seized the back of the boy’s neck.

  ‘I thought you were dead all these years . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I thought I’d lost you . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  Dun-Cadal was sobbing, his knees threatening to collapse under him.

  ‘Is it really you, Frog?’ he asked again.

  Laerte tried to remain dignified but found it impossible to be unmoved.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dun-Cadal broke down completely, shedding hot tears, for his life, for his fall from grace . . . for all the lost years when he never
stopped thinking about the lad. He hugged Laerte fiercely, as if afraid he might lose him again. Laerte had a moment of hesitation and then put his arms around the old man.

  This man had taught him everything, given him everything, without ever suspecting Laerte’s true intentions. Laerte had judged this man before he came to know him, but over time he had grown used to him and, in the end and despite himself, fond of him. As the sun illuminated Masalia’s rooftops below and the city became bathed in a golden glow, he felt as if he saw things clearly at last. Despite all Laerte’s insolence and anger, this man had never stopped loving him like a father loves his son.

  And here they were, reunited again . . .

  ‘Some moments are not meant to be shared with others,’ said Rogant.

  Standing at her bedchamber window, on the first floor, Viola gave a guilty start. Behind her, Rogant was giving her an accusing look. She had not heard him enter, too busy spying on the two men in the courtyard.

  ‘I’m just making sure that everything is all right,’ she explained cheekily.

  ‘de Page has prepared all the details for Dun-Cadal’s departure. On Masque Night. He will not stand in our way. He’s nothing but an old ghost.’

  ‘It’s not that. I’m worried about Laerte,’ she retorted. ‘He never should have revealed himself. This story is upsetting him.’

  ‘Believe me,’ said Rogant as he walked towards her, ‘it’s not the old man who is upsetting Laerte most . . .’

  She gazed down again at the courtyard. No, to be sure, there were greater dangers than the presence of Dun-Cadal.

  ‘Do you think he’ll try to disrupt the wedding?’ Viola asked anxiously as she watched the two men draw apart.

  ‘I’ve known Laerte long enough to tell you that he does not abandon anything . . . or anyone. If she’s marrying Balian Azdeki then both De Page and Aladzio knew it. And if they did not tell him then they had good reason. Now that he knows, he’ll have to decide where his loyalties reside.’

  Neither of them were dupes. Whatever they said to him, Laerte would do as he pleased. He was the one leading this mission, he would decide what they should or should not do.

  ‘He’s going to make us miss our chance,’ railed Viola, balling her fists.

  Rogant looked down at her with an odd smile. Outside in the courtyard Dun-Cadal was alone now, retrieving Eraëd. He hefted the rapier in his hand before vanishing inside the house.

  Later that same morning Laerte crept out of the house and, finding a deserted alleyway, climbed up a long drainpipe to the rooftops. He knew the risks he was taking, knew that if he made the slightest mistake then everything could come to an end before he fulfilled his purpose. But the Book could wait for a few hours. Esyld was being coerced into marrying Azdeki’s son and that took precedence.

  What sort of knight would he be if he did not come to her rescue? Even the possibility that he might fail and wreck their chances of entering the Palatio on the fateful evening would not deter him. He had mastered a dragon, fought at Dun-Cadal’s side, and faced four of the Empire’s greatest knights singlehandedly before defeating death itself. Nothing was impossible for him. Leaping stealthily from roof to roof he crossed the city undetected. He climbed to the top of a tall building overlooking the square in front of Masalia’s biggest cathedral and waited for noon to arrive. In the distance behind the church’s great tower he could make out the bulge of the Palatio’s dome.

  ‘It’s easy to fight with a sword.’

  A crowd of officials, councillors, captains of the guard and nobles, all dressed in their finest, were gathered before the sanctuary door. Most of them were already sporting the colourful masks that every inhabitant of Masalia would be wearing during the festivities that evening.

  ‘But to vanquish one’s demons, a blade is of no use.’

  At the foot of the cathedral’s steps, a red carriage decorated with gold trimmings came to a halt. Laerte studied the ground a few yards below him. And leapt.

  ‘If you are on your knees, pride gone, then stand up, even if you tremble, and regain your dignity.

  ‘Regain your dignity.’

  ‘“For it is the only weapon which protects you from the powerful,”’ recited de Page.

  The coach rocked and swayed, making the duke, seated upon a purple bench, seem to dance to the rhythm of the vehicle’s movements. One hand gripping the handle by the window, he glanced out at the misty countryside. The misshapen silhouettes of dead trees loomed out of the fog and, at times, he glimpsed crows perched on their twisted branches.

  ‘The only weapon,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Dignity . . .’

  He was wearing a plain black outfit, with no adornment but a golden buckle on his belt, flared black gloves and a pendant that hung from his closed collar. Otherwise he was dressed with a sobriety which Laerte did not recall seeing before. The first time he had met the man had been at Emeris during one of his orgies. The second time, at the villa, Laerte had felt like the plains they were travelling across at present: befogged and forsaken.

  Shaken by the jolts, Laerte observed the duke carefully, studying each gesture, each sentence he uttered, in the hope of finding some certainties about the man. De Page was a schemer and, although he had saved Laerte’s life, the young knight favoured wariness over blind trust. He did not believe the duke was his friend for a single instant.

  ‘Do you know who wrote that?’ asked de Page as he looked out at the mist.

  Laerte shook his head. The duke appeared to have expected this response since he continued without even giving his travelling companion a glance.

  ‘Your father,’ he said.

  The smell of burnt grass filled their compartment, forcing de Page to turn away from the window. Through the opening, Laerte glimpsed a flaming heap being stabbed by the silhouettes of peasants armed with pitchforks. The duke pinched his nose for an instant before sighing and leaning back against the bench. He allowed a moment to pass, observing Laerte.

  ‘I’ve read his writings. I managed to obtain copies even though they were banned by the Fangolin monks.’

  Laerte nodded, his heart suddenly heavy. He’d never had the chance to read anything Oratio had written.

  ‘Do you know what he meant by that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That only dignity puts us on equal footing with decision makers. I’ve seen poor men who were more dignified than their ill-mannered, cowardly barons. I’ve seen peasant women stand up to tax collectors in order to defend their meagre harvest. I’ve seen enslaved Nâaga hold their heads high, I’ve seen—’

  He stopped speaking suddenly.

  ‘Swords are not the only way to fight, Laerte.’

  He turned back to the window.

  ‘We’re arriving.’

  The coach slowed, the jolting became less severe, until the vehicle finally shuddered to a halt and the horses snorted.

  They had travelled for more than two hours from Garmaret, where they had agreed to meet. Laerte had left the duke’s villa nine years ago. He had been roaming the remains of a broken Empire, in a newborn Republic which, day after day, had restored hope in its people. He had been following the course of events from afar and yet he always had the feeling that he was in the heart of Emeris, almost the Azdekis’ shadow. De Page had played his part in ensuring that.

  For, even separated by great distances, they had remained in close contact all these years, Aladzio having placed a most reliable friend at their disposal, charged with delivering messages. Nine years of travel, comings and goings, farewells and reunions. From the Vershan mountains to the West, to the far North, to the gates of Masalia, Laerte had hunted for Esyld. When his despair grew too strong he returned to de Page’s villa to seek out Rogant, and sometimes Aladzio. The inventor also travelled back and forth at the orders of the Azdeki family, searching the Fangolin monasteries in the hopes of finding the key to the Sacred Book. The passage of time might have kept them apart and discouraged them. But the eleven long years sin
ce the fall of the Empire had in no way shaken Laerte’s resolve. When the councillor sent word that the moment had come to settle their affairs, he had been quick to reply to the invitation.

  Aladzio’s friend welcomed them with a piercing cry as the coach door opened. Laerte stepped down from the coach’s running board, his foot sinking into dense mud. Raising his head, he spotted it in the mist, circling the ruins of a tour, continuing to call. The gods alone knew how the creature had been able to locate him during his travels, but it had always appeared in the sky and landed on his outstretched arm, bearing a capsule containing a letter.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the look of the building,’ the nobleman advised him, with a raised eyebrow and a faint smile. ‘Its beauty lies inside.’

  With a wave of his hand, de Page invited Laerte to approach the heavy wooden door, from which several planks were missing, revealing the flickering flames of torches within. The tower had been built upon a waterlogged hill, where even the grass struggled to grow. A thick, viscous mud clung to Laerte’s boots. He took a step forward, then halted, certain he’d seen a similar tower before, despite the gaps in the stonework and mouldy beams jutting from its crown.

  ‘Fangol,’ said de Page, detecting his puzzlement. ‘A Fangolin monastery, one of the first to be built. It’s the same design as the Tower of Fangol, although on a smaller scale, of course.’

  Of course. In the Liaber Moralis, the most sacred shrine of the Fangolin Order was described as immense, rising from a mountain-top to reach the sky. On some days, according to legend, its summit pierced the clouds. It was strange to see its replica bathed in mist.

  De Page pushed the door open and entered first, removing his gloves and slapping them against one another. Dust covered the stones and the air seemed foul despite the embrasures in the walls. In one corner, there was a wretched old table at which sat a man in an even more pitiable state. He lifted his chin, with a blissful smile on his lips and shaggy white hair falling over his round, wrinkled face. At the rear, in a hollow of one sagging wall, a staircase rose and next to it there was a trapdoor set in the ground. Laerte closed the door behind him and was greeted by a snickering laugh.