The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty . . .’ murmured Dun-Cadal.

  There was anger in the Emperor’s voice, but also a degree of resignation. As if in the end all this was not completely unexpected.

  ‘I can also shed blood if I have to. I can be ruthless, you know. I’m no longer the child you once protected, I’ve learned a lot since then. Oratio of Uster believed that the Empire could not endure, that change was needed, that I was unworthy! But it was set forth in the Liaber Dest itself that my family would accede to the Imperial throne! I am and I remain a Reyes, by the gods! Whatever my opponents say and however many they may be. Me, not worthy? And not worthy of what? Governing over a court filled with viperish tongues and flatterers seeking my favour in exchange for their lying compliments . . . ?’

  The shadow of a sword rose into the air, perfect, slender and straight, its guard seeming to wrap itself around the balled fist. The curtain fluttered slightly.

  ‘They are here, Dun-Cadal my friend,’ the Emperor affirmed, brandishing Eraëd. ‘They are here, the real rebels. The ones who caused all this. They slither like serpents around my feet. They flatter me, they seduce me, thinking I see nothing.’

  Now disgust accompanied his words. He was more deeply wounded than he cared to admit, voicing a distress that only the general could perceive. He had known Asham Ivani Reyes for such a long time. The Emperor lowered the sword and its shadow disappeared into a scabbard which he held in a trembling hand.

  ‘What was it like, the Saltmarsh?’ he asked suddenly, as if the general had just returned from some leisure trip.

  Disconcerted, Dun-Cadal took his time before answering:

  ‘Wet . . .’

  ‘A whole year,’ murmured the Emperor.

  ‘I would have preferred a much shorter stay,’ the general conceded before changing his tone. ‘Don’t be despondent, Your Imperial Majesty. This revolt doesn’t amount to anything. If you fear losing then you might as well surrender to them right away.’

  ‘I like that,’ replied the Emperor. ‘You’re the only one to speak to me in this manner.’

  There was a moment of silence before the Emperor’s muffled voice made itself heard again.

  ‘It is not here with me, however, that I have the greatest need of you, but at the front. You made a strong impression at the Salt-marsh. They required days to recover from your escape. To think that a single knight . . .’

  ‘And a child, Your Imperial Majesty.’

  ‘Even worse,’ laughed the Emperor. ‘A mere child . . .’

  ‘He’s gifted. He will make a great knight, I’m certain of it. I would have liked to present him to you at greater length. He was very nervous at the idea of meeting you.’

  ‘I shall congratulate him when you return . . .’ sighed the Emperor. ‘Both of you . . .’

  By this single sentence, Dun-Cadal understood that his apprentice had been recognised and placed under his sole protection. The child would accompany him if he, Dun-Cadal, decided so. Reyes slowly stood up again and the shadow of his head shrank, as if he had turned his eyes towards the balcony.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend, to be sending you back to war so soon.’

  A rustling of wings could be heard in the room. Beyond the balcony, the tree tops stirred as a flock of sparrows took flight.

  The Empire was shaking on its foundations, its regions set alight one after another. This was no simple revolt. Never before had Imperial power been threatened in this manner. For who could be singled out for judgement? It was the people who, little by little, rose up against their master. Children, the Emperor had said, angry children. As he walked the long hallways of the Imperial palace, Dun-Cadal tried to comprehend it. Most had food on their tables, taxes were not exorbitant, and the peasantry was not simply left at the mercy of an arrogant nobility: they owed their allegiance to the Empire and not to any tin-pot counts. The Emperor made sure that everyone received their due consideration and that justice was carried out. The gods had chosen his family and written an extraordinary destiny for them. To express any doubt about the legitimacy of their acts, the intelligence of their decisions, was to insult divine will.

  But when he pushed open the wooden door he had dreamt of for so long now, he was no longer seeking answers to his questions. All he cared about was the simple scent of lavender.

  ‘They told me you’d returned. But I didn’t believe it,’ declared a harsh voice.

  He crossed the chamber with a firm step, encircling the woman by the window in his arms in order to kiss her. She immediately pushed him away, cursing. Although he tried to keep hold of her for an instant, the slap that reddened his cheek quickly dissuaded him.

  ‘Emeris is no longer as welcoming as it used to be,’ he grumbled, rubbing his face.

  ‘You dog!’ she exploded as she walked over to the door to close it with an angry slam. ‘You didn’t even think to send a letter to reassure me!’

  ‘About what? From what I see, you’ve been busy enough without me.’

  He was finally glancing around the chamber he had entered without ceremony. A broad canopied bed was surrounded by two finely sculpted night tables and the walls were covered with bright red tapestries with golden borders. When he had last left Emeris, Mildrel had merely been a courtesan like all the others, without a large income or fancy furnishings. In his absence, she had become the woman most sought after by noblemen and the most hated by her own kind. But as far as Dun-Cadal was concerned, she was the only woman who had ever existed.

  She moved along the edge of the bed, her fingers trailing over the vivid green spread.

  ‘I don’t belong to you, Dun-Cadal. You’ve known how I am from the beginning. . .’

  ‘You don’t belong to me . . . and yet you missed me,’ the general said with a smile as he approached her.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ she said in a grating tone.

  His hands, normally so strong, brushed the woman’s wrists before his fingers closed gently over the delicate skin. She did not move an inch. Her curly brown hair spilled over her bare shoulders, her full lips were shaded a light red. Her eyes, edged in black, stared at him without blinking.

  ‘A year without any news, a whole year when everyone believed you to be dead . . . you . . .’

  ‘You what?’ he murmured, bending towards her slightly.

  She could not finish her speech, having waited for him so long. Their lips met in a lingering kiss . . . before their embrace made them forget everything and carried them far, far away from the rumblings of war and lurking death. There was no longer anything but their hearts against one another, beating hard and fast, at the same rhythm.

  The sun was declining when Dun-Cadal went to the window. A naked leg emerged from under the sheets on the bed. Mildrel was observing him pensively. She took a deep breath, barely masking her disappointment.

  ‘You’re going to leave again right away, aren’t you?’

  Dun-Cadal didn’t reply. His attention was focused on the section of the palace opposite his mistress’s apartments. The golden roofs were tarnished by vert-de-gris and in the distance below, he could see the tall white houses of the surrounding city.

  ‘What’s he like . . . ?’ He turned his head towards her, a blank look on his face. ‘The child from the Saltmarsh . . . Everyone gossips around here, you know,’ she went on, her tone light. ‘Your exploits have never ceased to amaze. Dun-Cadal, the general, has become a veritable myth. It’s wasn’t enough for you to fight for the Empire, you had to go and leave your mark on men’s minds—’

  ‘It’s not how it seems.’

  ‘Was it written that you should bring the lad back with you?’

  ‘Mildrel—’

  ‘Written down in a book of which no one has ever read even a single page,’ she commented sourly.

  Dun-Cadal paused before replying. The Liaber Dest had always been the source of their biggest disagreement. She had never believed the Sacred Book existed and criticised his faith whenever she could. F
or every time she said she feared for him on the eve of combat, he justified the risks he took with simple fatalism. While she argued that placing such faith on a lost book was evidence of ignorance. Pragmatic by nature, she devoted herself to gleaning information from the rumours and murmurs at court rather than taking an interest in more arcane matters like the origins of the world. As far as the divine was concerned, she tasted its sweetness in the satin sheets on her bed. Ideas and dreams she left to those who were unable to love. This difference in perspective affected her relationship with the general, but their love ran too deep to wither because of an argument.

  ‘It’s how things are. The gods decide the course of our lives. The fact that the Sacred Book has been lost doesn’t mean you can deny its existence. Whether you like it or not.’

  ‘And what about him? Was it written that you would find him in a marsh?’

  He raised an eyebrow. Mildrel sat up in her bed.

  ‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ she said with a smile.

  But there was sadness in her eyes. He knew what pained her, but could not speak of it. It did not interest him.

  ‘He’s just my pupil.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were so . . . kind. Gathering in and training a Saltmarsh orphan, taking care of him, looking out for him like a fa—’

  ‘I must be going,’ he broke in, in a studiedly neutral tone. ‘I’ll remain in Emeris for a few more days before taking the road to the Vershan mountains. I shall see you again.’

  He picked up his shirt from the edge of the bed and put it back on.

  ‘Tell me, Dun-Cadal, what does he have that the others lacked?’

  ‘He needs me . . .’

  ‘I need you too! I don’t want to be a courtesan my whole life . . .’ Mildrel murmured.

  ‘You don’t belong to me.’

  ‘I could.’

  Holding his breastplate in his hands, he grew still for a moment before lifting his eyes to hers with a strange expression on his face. She immediately looked down, folding her legs under her like child caught doing something naughty. Without saying a word, he donned the pieces of his armour. Once he was presentable he headed for the door and, gripping the handle, he gave her one last glance.

  ‘I’ll see you again . . .’

  He waited a brief instant, hoping that she would confirm their next meeting or beg him to stay a while longer, but she gave no response. It had always been like this between them and so it would surely remain. They could not live without one another but each shared moment had to come to an end. He was returning to combat and there was nothing she could do about it. She prayed for his safety. And, many times after he departed, she had placed her hands on her belly in the hope she would feel life slowly growing there; longing to keep a part of him with her always . . .

  Dun-Cadal wandered for a time in the palace hallways, enjoying a moment of peace he had not experienced in more than two years. Until finally his steps led him to a large inner courtyard, surrounded by open corridors lined with columns. He lingered for a moment, remembering his arrival in this place as a very young man. Here he had attended his classes and learned the art of war before being judged unsuited for command. A smile curled his lips. How atypical his career had been and what a strange path he had been forced to take in order to achieve the highest military rank . . .

  Some cadets were chatting near a fountain, dressed in red-and-white doublets. On their chests, drawn within a silver shield, they wore the image of a thin, proud rapier with a twisted guard. The legendary Eraëd, the Emperors’ sword.

  Dun-Cadal spotted a boy sitting on the lip of the fountain, frantically wiping at the blood running from his nose. One of his cheekbones was swollen and there was a cut on his lower lip. A fight must have broken out a short time before. The general went to join him with a slow step, knowing that those present were observing him with a certain deference. When the cadets recognised him, words dried up. Except for those of the general, which were barely audible.

  ‘I see you’ve already been making friends . . .’ he murmured to the lad.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Frog grunted.

  The steward had brought him here, and entrusted him to the palace master-at-arms to see that he was assigned a room. During their brief stay in Emeris, Frog would be just another knight’s squire. And here, more than elsewhere, every newcomer had to earn respect from the very first day. Frog had just undergone the bitter experience.

  ‘It’s always hard to find one’s place . . .’

  Dun-Cadal let his eyes drift over the groups of cadets. Their faces had gone pale. General Daermon had just appeared, in person, and a boy they had just shamelessly thrashed happened to be his protégé. Dun-Cadal did not need to say a word to make the culprits avert their eyes. He hesitated for a long instant. Should he punish them?

  ‘It’s always difficult to know what one is capable of, and as for revealing it to others . . . Well then, violence is hardly a solution. Wine! Tavern keeper! More wine!’

  Dun-Cadal contented himself with giving them a baleful stare.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We’ll get that fixed up. And take your hand away from your nose, a few blows won’t make it drop off .’

  ‘You’ve had enough to drink, Dun-Cadal.’

  Frog stood, sniffling, with his eyes lowered and his teeth gritted. He followed the knight with a quick step, passing between the cadets without giving them a single glance. A few feet away, a young Nâaga watched them enter the academy.

  ‘An’ my tankard! I hav’n’t finissed my . . . my tankard! Thief!

  *

  ‘Dun-Cadal! Stop it!’

  ‘My taaankard!’

  ‘General!’

  She’d raised her voice like she’d never done before. She was as surprised as the old man banging on the tavern door. But she had to admit that her sudden display of authority worked wonders. Dun-Cadal went from being a bellowing drunkard to a little boy caught in the act.

  ‘He doesn’t want to serve you. Night has fallen, you should go to bed.’

  She helped him move away from the door. Inside the tavern, the customers were still carousing and, although the door muffled the noise, Dun-Cadal could hear the laughter along with the melodies of the fifes and penny whistles. With regret, he turned away and staggered off beside the young woman. The day had gone so quickly, as his story unfolded with the help of tankards filled to the brim. He had plunged into more than just his past . . .

  ‘Come on, Dun-Cadal, I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Take me home,’ he sneered, hiccupping. ‘But I’m a hero! Who’re you? A nanny . . . ha-ha! . . . a nanny . . .’

  ‘And you stink . . .’

  He leaned on her shoulder, his feet almost slipping out from under him with every step. In the muddy alley, barely lit by the dim oil lamps hanging from the balcony, anyone coming across this frail young woman supporting a man as massively built as Dun-Cadal would have been amused. Or intrigued . . .

  Three men hidden in the shadow of an adjoining street spotted them. The target was too good to pass up and they came forward, sniggering.

  ‘Hey!’ jeered the thinnest of the trio, hefting a club studded with sharp points. ‘Where do you think you’re going, my beauty? Your grandpa there doesn’t look too lively. How about giving us some money on this fine evening?’

  Viola halted abruptly. Dun-Cadal, deprived of any strength, let his head fell upon her shoulder. A grimace passed across his face and his eyes rolled in his sockets as if he were seeking a point to focus on somewhere ahead.

  ‘Wha’s . . . all this . . . ?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Company . . .’ Viola murmured, her voice suddenly tense.

  In the darkness, the disparate silhouettes facing them did not bode well. One was almost a giant, the second, probably the leader, was as thin as a rail, and the third as round as a cannonball. All of them wore patched brown trousers and shirts of the same shade opened in a V at the neck. The thin one wore a sleev
eless leather vest and an odd-looking hat which drooped around his head.

  ‘Br-brigan’s!’ bawled the general, pushing the young woman aside with an elbow. ‘Or swin’lers?’

  He threw himself at the trio, stumbling several times.

  ‘Come ’n’ flight, yo’ . . . yo’ . . . yokels!’

  ‘Flight?’ snickered the round one. ‘Yo-yo-yokels?’

  ‘He’s pissed,’ the giant laughed hoarsely.

  ‘General!’ screamed Viola.

  He wanted to strike the first brigand a furious blow with his fist but this simple gesture was enough to make him lose his balance. He’d seen his share of battles, he’d led men into combat, but this evening, Dun-Cadal Daermon was nothing but a falling-down drunk. Lying on the ground, looking surprised and ridiculous, the little amount of lucidity left to him wounded his self-esteem. Here he was . . . arse in the mud.

  There were blows, sharp and quick. There were cries of surprise and the snapping of an arm when the Nâaga emerged out of nowhere to seize one of the bandits. Dun-Cadal tried to make out what was going on but he couldn’t keep his head straight. All he perceived were blurred silhouettes and sounds like echoes rolling around inside his skull . . . and then finally there was silence, once the bandits had fled. He lowered his head, his belly knotted and his heart heavy. He should have made mincemeat of them. He should have used the animus; standing against them the way he had once defied the greatest warriors . . . A terribly cold hand gripped his wrist and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Come on,’ said a hoarse voice.

  Was that a note of . . . compassion? It was a strong grip that had raised him from the ground. The grip of a tattooed colossus.