The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Tired?’

  He grumbled and resumed his contemplation of the ceiling.

  ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking. I feel the same way.’

  He stiffened and almost sat up when she continued.

  ‘I feel betrayed too.’

  He heard her draw up a chair and sit down.

  ‘To begin with, when you spoke to me about Frog, I was a thousand leagues from ever suspecting that it was him,’ she explained. ‘Any more than he warned me that the man I was supposed to find was the most famous general of the Empire.’

  Intrigued, he rose up on his elbows, but did not glance at her. His mind still seemed to be somewhere else.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ he asked in a dull voice.

  The young woman’s lips sketched a smile. He was hoping for answers and even if she were unable to provide all of them, perhaps she would help clear his thoughts a little. Like him, she seemed to be somewhat taken aback by events.

  ‘I was supposed to find a soldier, a man called Dun who was telling all and sundry how he had fled Emeris taking the sword with him. I was supposed to coax you into leading us to Eraëd . . .’

  At last he deigned to look at her.

  ‘You see,’ she confided as she leaned towards him, ‘I didn’t lie to you. But, let’s say, I didn’t tell you everything. And in that—’

  She raised her eyes with a pensive air.

  ‘—in that, I take after him, I suppose . . .’

  Before Dun-Cadal had time to lie back down, she resumed speaking.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’

  When she saw him slide his legs over the edge of the bed to sit up, she knew she’d captured his attention. Over the past few days, she’d developed a certain fondness for the old warrior. She’d understood what had shattered him. She imagined how he must have been in his days of glory: boorish, arrogant and authoritarian. Now he was a broken sword. He had wanted to offer the world to a boy from the Saltmarsh, whose loss had crushed him while the Empire to which he would have given his life collapsed around him.

  ‘What’s strange?’ he mumbled.

  ‘To be so angry with him while still loving him,’ she said, lowering her eyes.

  The general stared at her, noting her sudden embarrassment as she realised the full import of her admission.

  ‘You and he . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ she hastened to reply. ‘In truth, I do not know him well . . . And I’m not sure he’s aware I even exist . . .’

  Her cheeks were flushing. No, of course they weren’t together, but how could she now deny she harboured feelings for Fro— Laerte . . . ? The boy was whoever he wanted to be, that didn’t concern Dun-Cadal any longer. The old man simply wished to leave this chamber, forget what he had seen, and drink to his heart’s content.

  So why didn’t he just get up, go through the door, descend the stairs, knock out the Nâaga in the salon below, and melt away among Masalia’s night revellers? Why stay here? He had lost Frog. He’d discovered Laerte of Uster instead. He did not have the slightest idea of what had taken place in the meantime, which no doubt would have made sense of all this. In the chaos of his thoughts, Viola was the only fixed, reassuring landmark.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, feeling distressed. ‘Are you even really a historian?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘That much, yes, I really am a historian at the Great College . . . but tuition is expensive, you know, and girls such as myself, whose parents are simple, ordinary folk, must have recourse to sponsors. Mine is a councillor by the name of de Page. A good man, honest . . . but to whom I am somewhat indebted.’

  ‘de Page? Then he has managed to do well for himself too,’ the general grumbled softly.

  One more to add to the list. Another of those who had enjoyed the Emperor’s favour, had sought out his company, and had finally discarded him as if he were of no account. Duke 0 had been known for his astonishing feasts, his casual attitude, and the unpleasant rumours about him. He’d been a pervert who, even when the nobility still existed, Dun-Cadal had despised. A worm in the fruit, whose appetite the Emperor had been unable to restrain . . .

  ‘If you are as indebted to him as much as that . . .’

  ‘He’s the one who sent me here,’ concluded Viola, nodding again

  A craven man . . . yes, a craven man who was always fawning. It was beyond belief. Was it through fawning that he’d saved his life and become a councillor? And the others, had they trampled their own dignity in order to remain in power? Was there even an ounce of honour left in this world? His head swam.

  ‘But why here?’ he asked angrily, his belly knotted. ‘For Eraëd? Why kill those councillors? What are you seeking?’

  His throat felt terribly parched. And he struggled to ask one last question, perhaps the most important one in his eyes.

  ‘Why did he never say anything to me?’

  Tears accumulated at the corner of his eyes, ready to submerge him. His jaws clenched as he desperately sought to hold them back, but some spilled down, and with them his disgust at no longer being as solid as a rock. When he felt the young woman’s soft hands upon his, he had the sensation of falling, endlessly, with no hope of containing anything at all.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she answered quietly. ‘Perhaps he came to you in order to give you an answer . . .’

  He did not believe her for an instant. Years of his life had been built upon a lie. This boy, he had loved him . . . But why else would he emerge from the shadows when their plan didn’t call for it? He tilted his head and contemplated Viola’s hands as she gently caressed his withered skin with the tips of her thumbs, as if it were old leather.

  ‘Azdeki gave the order to have his father hung. Is that why he’s here?’ He suddenly asked, regaining control of his emotions.

  He glared at Viola, who still seemed moved by the tears he had just shed. She held his gaze without saying a word.

  ‘Azdeki, Negus, all those who served the Empire, those who condemned Oratio of Uster to death . . . That’s the link, isn’t it?’ continued Dun-Cadal. ‘There’s a reason Fro—’

  His throat suddenly tight, he inhaled deeply

  ‘—that he disguised himself as Logrid. But . . .’

  He stared at Viola to keep the thread of his thoughts, hoping that his muddle of questions would not overcome him again. Every event, every sentence, every detail that he had ever registered deep in his memory, he now tried to regroup into a coherent whole. The presence of Rogant in front of the harbour, the same Rogant who had prevented him from turning into an alley, the fight provoked by a Nâaga to draw the attention of the guards just before Enain-Cassart was assassinated . . . the lavender Viola wore which reminded him of his lover.

  ‘No. It’s not a question of revenge,’ he mused. ‘You were seeking the sword . . . So it’s not only Azdeki.’

  She turned her eyes away, pensive. Then, she spoke.

  ‘It’s not a question of vengeance, Captain,’ said a weak voice. ‘It’s a question of faith. Your faith . . .’

  ‘I am a councillor,’ Azdeki replied sharply.

  He took a step towards the cell’s bars and stared down at the prisoner with a haughty gaze, one hand gripping his sword. He had removed his councillor’s toga in favour of more military attire, with tall black boots and a light leather surcoat. In the shadowy cell, the old man covered in a plain filthy robe remained seated, his bare feet in the damp earth. Once upon a time his hair had been long, silky, white and pure. Now what little he had left was stuck together beneath a layer of muck.

  ‘Don’t forget what I’ve done,’ Azdeki continued with a menacing air. ‘Don’t ever forget it.’

  ‘How could I?’ the old man laughed sadly. ‘You’ve destroyed my dynasty by abusing our trust. Boast as much as you like of your success, you will never be anything but a mere . . . captain to me.’

  ‘Councillor!’ shouted Azdeki, seizing the bars
with both hands.

  He scowled in anger, hesitating over whether to enter the cell, his face livid. Shaking his head, he let go and ran a hand through his grey hair, taking a deep breath.

  ‘I know you’re involved in this somehow. I don’t know how you managed it, but you are responsible for all this,’ he accused, slightly out of breath. ‘Why else would the assassin look like Logrid? Tell me, Anvelin . . .’

  ‘. . . Evgueni Reyes . . .’ sighed Dun-Cadal, incredulous.

  ‘He’s holding him prisoner in the Palatio’s gaols,’ nodded Viola.

  Dun-Cadal passed a hand over his face, looking blankly into space. The bishop of Emeris, uncle of the last Emperor. A man who had helped him, long ago, and then betrayed him. Like all the others. He wavered between anger and satisfaction, imagining the old man in a miserable cell, suffering a thousand agonies. He was so struck by this picture that he forgot to question Viola further.

  ‘Dun-Cadal?’

  Hand over his mouth, wearing a tormented expression, he turned his eyes to her. She remained surprisingly serene. Once again he found himself soothed and her gentle gaze did not leave his.

  ‘Why?’ he murmured at last.

  ‘To make an example?’ she suggested with a sad smile upon her lips.

  He stood up with feverish energy, pressing his dry hands against the cell’s dank wall, and moved with an unsteady step to the barrier separating him from Azdeki. Placing his hands upon on the sticky bars he glanced at the captain with his bright blue eyes and, despite his exhaustion, summoned a scowl to his face.

  ‘You’re frightened, Azdeki. He’s here. The phantom of the Empire you betrayed. Of the faith you left behind you. It was written, Azdeki. You can’t escape your destiny.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of phantoms,’ the councillor replied calmly, approaching his face to the bars. ‘Any more than I’m afraid of your words. You have never respected the Sacred Book . . . you betrayed the Fangolin Order in the interests of your family. All that was written, Anvelin, was the pitiful fall of your nephew and the advent of my Republic. And soon you’ll be able to see proof of it for yourself.’

  ‘What did he know? Viola!’ Dun-Cadal asked impatiently.

  He stood up suddenly, unsettled now he was discovering all the things he had been unable to see before. Back when he thought himself glorious, powerful and proud, at the service of an eternal Empire.

  ‘What did the bishop know?’

  He looked down at her from his full height. Viola remained seated without flinching, staring at the empty bed before her, her hands joined upon her knees.

  ‘He knew what Oratio of Uster had in the Saltmarsh,’ she confessed quietly. ‘The reason why the Azdeki family turned against him, before they turned on the Emperor. He knew what the Uster family had been protecting for centuries; what Oratio wanted to reveal to the entire world . . .’

  Then she gently lifted her head towards him, before her eyes followed the movement and met the general’s incredulous gaze.

  ‘The Book.’

  ‘What book?’ asked Dun-Cadal, almost choking.

  ‘The . . . Book,’ repeated Viola, nodding her head.

  *

  ‘You won’t convince anyone, Azdeki!’ cried Anvelin with all his might. ‘No one may read it! No one!’

  The councillor’s silhouette receded down the arched corridor, trailing a gigantic shadow cast by the torchlight. The sound of his steps climbing the stone stairs faded, leaving only the sputtering of the flames.

  ‘. . . no one,’ the old priest concluded in a muffled sob.

  Weary, Anvelin let himself slip down the bars, falling to his knees. He did not hear the new footsteps coming towards him. Only the shadow that shrouded him made him to look up and a rare smile illuminated his face, hollowed as much by starvation as by wrinkles.

  ‘Are you there?’ he rejoiced in a rasping voice. ‘You’re always there, yes . . . always. Like a memory . . . you never leave me.’

  The shadow was silent. It examined him from behind a golden mask, split by a crack, showing no expression.

  ‘It was written, wasn’t it?’ Anvelin said shakily, torn between joy and exhaustion. ‘The gods had always foreseen it. If my lineage fell, you would return to avenge us, yes, oh yes. We weren’t wrong to believe ourselves fit to rule, no, oh no. We weren’t wrong. I pray every day to thank the gods, you know. Every day.’

  His face suddenly twisted in remorse.

  ‘I did not doubt, no! I never doubted the Liaber Dest, but it had been thus for centuries. To the Usters the Book, to us the Sword. That’s how it always was.’

  And his smile returned.

  ‘. . . are you there?’ he repeated as if the shadow had just appeared. ‘You’re always there, yes . . . always. Like a memory . . .’

  The shadow’s green cape flapped as it moved towards the stairs.

  ‘. . . you don’t leave me . . . ever . . .’ sobbed Anvelin.

  Dun-Cadal was sitting against the wall, his gaze lost in the grain of the wooden floorboards, without having any clear idea of where he was, how he arrived here, or why. He no longer thought, no longer reacted. His entire being was drowned in a flood of contradictory feelings overlying a terrible sadness. There it was, the dull pain, the wound that never ceased to bleed and was tearing his heart in two.

  Beyond the manipulations, beyond the betrayals, there lay only one thing. But what a thing, to be the very root of his downfall.

  ‘The Liaber Dest . . .’ he muttered.

  He barely heard the chair creak when Viola got up to come over to him. Her lavender scent drew him out of his confusion and he met her gaze.

  ‘After his son’s wedding, during Masque Night, Etienne Azdeki will present the Sacred Book to the councillors he has invited,’ she announced gravely, measuring each of her words. ‘Can you imagine what a man could do, holding the destiny of the world in his hands? The aura of power he will gain in the eyes of the people?’

  ‘He’ll be a god among the gods . . .’ Dun-Cadal suddenly murmured.

  ‘And thanks to Anvelin Evgueni Reyes, he has won over the Fangolin Order,’ Viola continued. ‘The fate of the Republic will be decided on Masque Night. Our policies and our beliefs alike. That’s why we are here, Dun-Cadal.’

  ‘And the sword?’ he asked.

  He felt stunned, trying to find his place in this story. Knowing why his presence was required was unlikely to reassure him, but at least it would have shed some light on the abyss into which he seemed to be falling, with no end in sight.

  ‘You already know more than enough,’ Viola apologised with a wan smile. ‘Laerte would not approve my telling you all this.’

  She immediately drew away, heading towards the door but her scent lingered around Dun-Cadal. The old man did not move an inch when Viola asked, embarrassed:

  ‘Do you know why you are here?’

  She had halted in the doorway, hand on the latch, hesitating. The light from the oil lamp hanging on the wall blended with her freckles, like two fires merging on white silk. Her green eyes glowed with tenderness.

  Dun-Cadal shook his head, fearing she had an answer.

  ‘I don’t know much about him,’ she said, ‘but from what I do know, and from what you’ve told me of your own tale, I think . . .’

  She let her gaze drift about the room as she searched for the right words.

  ‘I think he needs you, Dun-Cadal.’

  Laerte walked with sure but quiet steps, ducking behind the columns bordering the corridors whenever a patrol squad came by. Alert, he continued onward, blending into the shadows without losing sight of Councillor Azdeki’s stately figure. He followed him through the palace’s maze, passing the great interior balcony that overlooked the ballroom before coming to the great stairway whose steps broadened as they descended.

  Laerte stopped at the edge of the first step and watched Azdeki go down, his pace quickening and looking irritated. The councillor hurried across the coloured marble floor, passing befo
re the great statues of the gods without sparing them a glance. The ballroom was immense, circular in form, with a vaulted ceiling painted with numerous tableaux recounting the history of the Caglieri dynasty, from the founding of their first city to the great battles against the Majorane kingdoms, the gods blessing their destiny until the advent of the first Emperor and his quest for the Liaber Dest, and lastly the portrait of a half-naked woman stabbing the heart of a strange-looking man with a shining spear. Adismas Deo Caglieri was represented in the centre, his eyes looking down upon the marbled floor studded with black stars, wearing a broad red cloak and a sumptuous beard giving him the air of a sage. His left arm was folded against his torso and his hand held a book. At the end of his raised right arm, Eraëd was haloed by a divine light.

  ‘In my left hand, the Book, in my right, the Sword . . .’

  Azdeki disappeared through the large open doors at the far side of the room. This was not the place, and still less the moment, to act. Laerte knew it, but nevertheless the desire was overpowering. He could have charged after him, run him through with his sword and ended matters there, without delay, without risk.

  ‘. . . and at my feet, the World.’

  No. Azdeki was not the only one responsible. And if the others, like Bernevin or Rhunstag, had not fled Masalia after the assassination of two of their number, it was thanks to their leader’s strength.

  Etienne Azdeki would never give up. Not this close to his goal. He was far too ambitious, and if he had shown patience up until now, he could wait no longer. The day of his son’s wedding would also be that of his consecration.

  Laerte took a deep breath and went back the way he came, deciding to skirt around Azdeki. He recalled the plans of the Palatio to guide himself, seeking the surest path to intercept the councillor’s route. Doubt nagged at him, sinuous and insidious. He knew he was capable of facing this ordeal, he’d fought his dragon already. But when he confronted Azdeki, would he be able to contain the anger that had been devouring him for so many years?