The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  Against one of the nave walls rose the statue of a woman, with a simple drape covering her breasts, and one hand lifted towards the heavens. She was only the first in a long series of sculptures, all of them the same height, but more importantly the only one Laerte could reach stealthily. Once he had broken clear of the human tide that continued to enter the cathedral, slipped behind the base of the statue. He silently climbed the giant figure’s back and, once he arrived upon the woman’s shoulder, he checked that no one was looking in his direction. Reassured, he used the animus to propel himself to her raised hand with a simple thrust. From there he made an impeccable leap to seize the edge of the cornice, his legs hanging in empty space.

  The turtledoves flapped their wings loudly. Some of the spectators even looked up.

  But none of them saw the silhouette that was effortlessly hoisting itself onto the ledge. Laerte crouched, one hand on the hilt of his sword. This was an ideal vantage point. A few yards away, in the cathedral’s choir, stood a stone altar, partially covered by a red and gold cloth. At its centre two chalices were being filled with clear water by a holy man wearing a long mauve robe and wearing a hat decorated with an oak leaf. Men at arms stood nearby.

  Laerte recognised Etienne Azdeki, his shining armour bearing the emblem of his family: an eagle holding a snake in its talons. Not far from him, seated upon one of the first pews, the shapeless mass of his uncle shuddered with each of his snores. A young man came up to whisper something in his ear, rousing him from his sleep.

  Live, Laerte thought, enjoy yourselves and laugh while you still can . . . Soon you will receive the punishment you deserve.

  He looked for another knight present who might have Azdeki blood running in his veins: someone with a gaunt face and an aquiline nose, ugly and arrogant-looking. But he found no one who matched the image he’d invented for Balian Azdeki.

  Once everyone had found their place within the cathedral and a path had formed from the open doors to the altar, the holy man lifted his arms towards the ceiling. Laerte retreated into the shadow of the cornice, placing one knee upon the ledge.

  ‘High councillors, family members, friends and dignitaries of Masalia, we welcome today the heart of our young and very dear Republic . . .’ the holy man proclaimed. ‘We are gathered here beneath the gaze of the gods to bind the destinies of two fine young people.’

  At last Laerte spotted him. The holy man had given one of the young knights standing on the altar steps an obsequious smile. The breastplate of his armour did not bear a family coat-of-arms but nevertheless stood out from the others, being shinier and lighter in colour, and there was silver embroidery on his epaulettes. He had blond hair, cut fairly short, and his face was barely marked by any signs of active duty as a soldier. He must have spent the war years confined to the family castle in the Vershan region. There was a hint of anxiety mixed with excitement in his expression, a joy that lit his face. He stood with a proud bearing, the focus of every gaze here in the temple.

  There was something about him that reminded Laerte of Iago, the son of Captain Meurnau in the Saltmarsh . . . the one Esyld wouldn’t stop speaking about before the war broke out. Laerte tensed as he knelt on the cornice ledge, his hand gripping his sword’s hilt.

  The cooing of the turtledoves was matched by coughing from several guests as the holy man continued the service. His words rang out through the entire cathedral but Laerte no longer heard them. He stared intently at the blond knight. He noted every detail of his entourage, counted the guards by his side, already imagining pouncing upon his victim while giving him ample opportunity to see his own face. Laerte was determined that the last thing the man who had snatched away his beloved saw before he died should be the very incarnation of wrath. Ah! So he wanted to force her to live with him? He thought she was his slave? His possession? What terrible future did he have in mind for her?

  As he envisioned the horror that lay in store for Esyld, he felt an indescribable anger rising; more violent than anything he had known before, a fire that unfurled through his entrails and stirred his entire being to give him an implacable strength.

  At that moment he saw her, preceded by four bridesmaids in yellow with long trains gliding behind them. She was wearing a golden gown with a wide ruff rising behind her perfectly curled hair. A diamond sparkled at her neck, just above her corseted bosom, and her face seemed frozen, her eyes avoiding the attention of the crowd. She walked slowly and was followed by a squad of halberdiers, their weapons held upright against their shoulders, wearing conical helmets with leather flaps protecting the back of their necks.

  They were forcing her down the aisle, Laerte was certain of it. He must not hesitate, must not let her be subjected to this degrading ceremony. He moved along the cornice, bent over, and then halted, overlooking the altar. How far away was it? Twenty yards or more? When he had been thrown from the Imperial throne room on the evening of the revolution, he had dropped more than forty yards, without using the animus to break his fall.

  She had reached the altar, and was welcomed there by the usurper. He offered her his hand, helping her climb the steps to the cushions placed at the feet of the holy man. They both knelt and exchanged a glance.

  A single glance.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  Of course he loved her. Of course he could not leave her in the hands of these monsters.

  ‘Times have changed. Nothing is the same as it was before.’

  ‘Balian Azdeki, son of Anya Bernevin and of High Councillor Etienne Azdeki, Commander of the Order of the Republic, Count of the Vershan, do you take as your lawfully wedded wife Esyld Orbey, daughter of Alena Angenet and Guy Orbey, here present?

  ‘The wedding will take place before the festivities begin . . .’

  This would not alter his plan at all. It would not put anything at risk. He was powerful enough to take care of Balian Azdeki without ruining their chances of infiltrating the Palatio. Etienne Azdeki would never postpone the ritual . . .

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I do,’ replied Balian in a voice trembling with emotion.

  ‘I had to forget you, Frog.’

  ‘Tell me you no longer love me!’

  ‘Esyld Orbey, daughter of Alena Angenet and Guy Orbey, do you take as your lawfully wedded husband Balian Azdeki, son of Anya Bernevin and High Councillor Etienne Azdeki . . .’

  She kept her hand on the knight’s. She was squeezing it. Laerte had to act now or never. She loved him, she had said so. Those feelings could never die, they were eternal.

  ‘. . . Commander of the Order of the Republic . . .’

  There was a stabbing pain in his heart as a hungry void swelled within him like a famished creature feeding upon his sorrow. It was as if there were nothing else left inside him.

  ‘If you try anything, all we’ve worked for will be for nothing.’

  Viola was just a child, she knew nothing about life, passion, or sacrificing oneself for the sake of another. How could she understand what he was prepared to do for Esyld? He would suddenly appear with his drawn sword, plunge his blade into Balian’s throat, get rid of the guards and then melt away into the crowd like a shadow . . . just as he had killed the Marquis of Enain-Cassart by the port. As stealthily as the Hand of the Emperor himself. And allow fear to gnaw even more strongly at Etienne Azdeki.

  ‘Tell me you no longer love me!’

  He did not believe her answer for a single instant. She had said ‘No’ to protect him.

  ‘. . . Count of the Vershan, here present?’

  His heart stopped beating. There was a long silence among the assembly. Not even the turtledoves made a sound. In the sunlight tinted by the stained glass of the cathedral’s choir Esyld’s face seemed to harden. Her eyes grew misty with tears.

  ‘No . . . say no,’ murmured Laerte. ‘Say no, I beg you.’

  He stooped down on the cornice, quietly drawing his sword from its scabbard. By the altar the holy man seemed embarrassed, darting a few worried glances towards Etie
nne Azdeki and his uncle. He asked again:

  ‘Esyld Orbey, daughter of Alena Angenet and Guy Orbey, do you take as your lawfully wedded husband Balian Azdeki here present?

  ‘No,’ urged Laerte.

  Fits of coughing echoed around the choir. Coughing due to the fatigue of aged throats, as well as the awkwardness caused by the silence.

  ‘Say no . . . No . . .’

  She raised her eyes towards the holy man, on the edge of tears. And yet . . .

  She was smiling, radiant.

  No! She was being forced to marry, this couldn’t be of her own free will. The Azdekis manipulated the people around them. Why would Balian be any different? How could she possibly love him? Laerte seethed on his ledge.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied at last in a low breath. ‘Yes, I do.’

  And the entire cathedral was swept by an immense sigh of relief, preceding a salvo of applause.

  ‘I hereby declare you united by the bonds of matrimony in the eyes of the gods and the Republic they protect,’ the holy man announced proudly. ‘Drink from the chalice and seal your union.’

  ‘Things change. People change. This world is no longer at war, Laerte!’

  How could she kiss him so tenderly? How could she leave her hand upon his cheek as if she wanted to press him against her? The image of their two naked bodies suddenly sprang into Laerte’s head. He retreated to the very rear of the cornice, his heart filled with rage. He could not help seeing the two of them entwined, nestled against one another, caught up in their passion . . . her skin against his, her lips against his, and her heart belonging to him . . .

  ‘I am at war!’

  He sat down, folding his legs against himself and, like a child, hugging them in his arms. He struggled to breathe as he fought his overwhelming urge to leap upon Balian, skin him alive, strike him down, destroy him, slice off the lips that had kissed Esyld’s body, sever the hands that had caressed her curves, plunge his fist into the young knight’s chest and tear out his heart before reducing it to shreds.

  Yet he had seen Esyld looking so beautiful, so happy. She hadn’t lied to him. Things changed. After so many years . . . she had grown apart from him, however firmly he believed such a thing was impossible. When he could have stayed at her side, he had gone off to war with Dun-Cadal, obsessed by his longing for revenge. He remained where he was, grief-stricken, during the rest of the ceremony. The religious hymns followed one another, and the bells pealed again when the bride and groom presented themselves on the front porch of the cathedral to be greeted by the crowd gathered outside. When Laerte was alone in the nave at last, he let himself slip down the statue and left through a small side door. Skirting around the people cheering beneath a rain of confetti and streamers in a thousand different colours, his gaze sought out the newly married couple. In the bright sunshine, they greeted all of Masalia who had turned out to share their happiness. They were smiling, moved by the crowd’s response.

  Laerte crept away, leaving part of his life behind him. Here their paths had definitely parted ways. Things had changed indeed.

  ‘We need to finish matters here,’ he said, standing on the threshold of the front door.

  In the salon, all three looked up at him gravely: Rogant seated on the divan, Viola on the bottom steps of the staircase, and Dun-Cadal by the kitchen, with a tankard of wine in his hand.

  ‘And . . . the wedding?’ the young woman asked as Laerte passed in front of her.

  Laerte did not reply, crossing the salon briskly. He had no wish to speak of the ceremony, it did not matter any more. He concentrated on their plans instead. In just a few hours they would depart for the Palatio and Dun-Cadal would leave the house in his turn, free and perhaps more at peace, after so many years spent weeping for the loss of Frog. Although it was Laerte who had desired peace when he revealed himself. Perhaps he had even hoped for forgiveness.

  Without saying a word the old man had followed him out into the courtyard. Side by side they contemplated the city, exchanging a few tense glances. Before them the rooftops of Masalia had taken on an orange glow. In the distance they could see the port where several three-masters lay at anchor, while on the horizon the sun’s reflection cut a dazzling track across a calm sea.

  Laerte lowered his eyes towards the tankard that Dun-Cadal was bringing to his lips. He shook his head in resignation. The old man did not seem to be drunk, but how much longer before the alcohol rose to his head? The sound of the wine splashing upon the gravel made Laerte look down again. Dun-Cadal was tilting the tankard to let the contents run out with a distracted air.

  ‘I could drink to our farewell, but I don’t really feel any desire to, lad . . .’

  Laerte simply nodded. With a sad smile Dun-Cadal watched the wine spill down. It was as if he were watching his regrets vanish into the gravel too . . . down to the very last drop.

  ‘If I’ve understood rightly, this evening I’m free to go.’

  ‘A carriage will come fetch you just after we leave,’ Laerte said at last in a hoarse voice. ‘It will take you wherever you want to go. De Page has agreed to give you enough to live on for another few years.’

  ‘So he’s buying me off . . . Is that how he does things?’ said Dun-Cadal with a scornful laugh. ‘He hid his game well.’

  Laerte would have liked to tell his mentor what awaited him, to reassure him and know that the old man was serene before he left him for good. The recent hatred he had felt towards him had no deeper cause than discovering him here, lost and addicted to drink. He had learned to love Dun-Cadal after all these years. But he had preserved his memory of a proud general, rather than the filthy shadow of a knight at death’s door he now saw before him.

  He made an effort to clarify his feelings. Although he still wasn’t capable of saying so, he knew what they were. He loved the man.

  Laerte hesitated over whether to put a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  He did not move. His gaze drifted out again to the city spread below.

  ‘Tell me,’ Dun-Cadal asked, and then cleared his throat. ‘Tell me: everything will play out at the Palatio, won’t it?’

  Laerte did not reply.

  ‘He has the Liaber Dest, lad,’ continued the general, letting his tankard drop.

  It smashed on the ground. Through the shards of stoneware, he watched the red wine trickling through the gravel like so many tiny rivers that had decided on their course.

  ‘He holds the destiny of men in his hands.’

  ‘That’s a possibility,’ admitted Laerte, still looking out at Masalia.

  ‘He does not deserve to possess such power . . .’

  ‘That’s a certainty.’

  ‘So stop him, son.’

  Time seemed to slow in the moment when Laerte finally placed his hand on his former teacher’s shoulder. For an instant. Then he drew away to go back inside the house.

  ‘Frog,’ Dun-Cadal called out in a muffled voice.

  When Laerte turned round, the setting sun wreathed a bright halo around the old warrior’s hunched silhouette. Slowly the man recovered his stature and from the sound of his voice, his backlit features in silhouette, Laerte finally saw the general as in his time of glory.

  ‘Have you become who you wanted to be, my boy? Are you a knight . . . or an assassin?’

  His tone was more confident but it still contained a hint of sadness.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ asked Laerte, seeming disturbed.

  Dun-Cadal took a step forward and the light fell upon his wrinkled face. In his expression there was a calmness quite unlike what had been there before, an air of wisdom that now surrounded him.

  ‘There is a difference, for you and me. The oath, do you remember? We took the oath.’

  ‘We were supposed to serve the Empire,’ Laerte replied without animosity.

  ‘It goes much further than that,’ asserted Dun-Cadal. ‘It’s about the path you chose to take. What if you come across Esyld this evening? Will you give in to your an
ger?’

  Laerte grew tense. He did not want to think about that, he did not want to imagine it. He needed to concentrate on his goal. But the mention of her name unleashed a storm within him that he feared he could not master.

  ‘That’s what the oath is about, that’s the promise you made. Remember it. The path of anger leads to an abyss, for to continue walking it you must constantly feed your anger, and always be looking behind you. Vengeance only calls forth vengeance.’

  Dun-Cadal slowly approached him.

  ‘The choice belongs to you . . . Laerte of Uster. My son . . .’

  He made no gesture, he merely looked Laerte straight in the eye.

  ‘I have always been so proud of you.’

  He did not wait for any reaction, passing Laerte without adding anything further. In the end it wasn’t knowing which choice the boy would make that mattered to him, it was reminding him that a decision was inevitable. Once the general entered the house, Laerte advanced to the edge of the courtyard, admiring the sunset.

  ‘Thrown into the fire, it does not burn . . .’

  Everything would be decided this evening, everything he had been fighting for, whether it was worth all the sacrifices he had made, deliberately or not . . . including losing Esyld to Balian Azdeki.

  ‘Put to the sword, it does not rip.’

  ‘It is made from the murmur of the gods and nothing shall ever destroy it.’

  The Sacred Book was unique in that it was indestructible. Aladzio had been able to verify that, it was one of the first things his new master had demonstrated, by throwing the book into a hearth. The flames had licked the cover without blackening the leather, and when Azdeki had removed it, still hot, he had told Aladzio to stab it with a dagger.

  The blade had broken.

  So it was absolute incontestable truth: the Liaber Dest was far more than a mere book. But did that mean, as legend claimed, that it contained the destiny of humanity? de Page, hostile to the Order of Fangol, doubted it. The Azdekis were certain of it. As for Aladzio . . .