The Path of Anger (33 page)

‘Return to the column!’ the soldier ordered before seizing hold of her.

‘Let go of her!’ Laerte snarled.

But a loud voice immediately immobilised him.

‘Frog!’

Behind him, leaning on the railing of the tower stairs, Dun-Cadal was glaring down at him. Before he could find an explanation for his conduct, he felt Esyld’s hand squeeze his.

‘Don’t forget, Frog,’ she said, as the soldier was leading her back to the road. ‘Don’t forget who you are. Ever.’

With a brusque gesture, she escaped from the soldier’s grip.

Everything happened so quickly that Laerte had no time to react. The young woman’s lips joined with his in a soft caress, her slender and gentle fingers placed on his cheeks. The kiss was moist, surprisingly moist. But so pleasant, intoxicating . . . She was pressed against him, as if she had always been there, as if whatever she did, or wherever she was, her true place was here next to him . . .

‘Cooome here, you!’ growled the guard as he tore her away from the boy.

Laerte stood there in a daze, still tasting the sweetness of the kiss upon his lips.

‘That’s so you won’t forget me,’ she murmured.

And as the soldier dragged her back into the crowd, her murmur became a cry, a truth screamed in the face of the world, tearing his heart in two.

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

When he finally decided to run after her, the soldier had already lifted her onto the back of a wagon. The column passed beneath the portcullis, a cloud of dust rising behind the jolting wheels.

‘Frog! Come back here!’

Dun-Cadal had already descended the stairs to catch up with him in a few brisk strides. In his hand, Laerte squeezed the small wooden horse tight. The column came to an end and the soldiers were preparing to lower the portcullis. It fell behind the last swaying wagon to depart on the great road . . .

4

THE FACE OF HIS ENEMY

‘They are merely . . . children.

I am responsible for them. For this Empire.

It has been written so since time immemorial.’

‘They’ve made you their puppet.’

He lay there, listless and disoriented, in a drab house in the heart of Masalia. Rogant had accompanied him to the upper floor without saying a word, before showing him into the chamber. Lying down on the moth-eaten blanket covering the bed he recalled the course of his life in the hope of finding some meaning there. The latest events had strengthened his conviction that he had failed at everything, while the other generals who served alongside him now held power. He had been incapable of saving the Empire and he had been unable to secure a dignified position after its fall. Any ideal he still preserved had become a burden to him.

When the chamber door opened he did not move but continued to stare at the ceiling, his mind elsewhere. A scent of lavender wafted into the room and only then did he turn his head to the side. For a moment he hoped to see Mildrel standing at the threshold. Strangely, he wasn’t disappointed when he recognised Viola’s slender figure.

‘I know it’s rather bare, but at least it’s better than a gaol cell,’ she said without daring to enter.

When he did not react, she came forward. She was wearing her plain green dress with a cape attached to her shoulders, as if out of modesty. Her hands clasped behind her back, she seemed anxious. Once she had advanced as far as the bed, she bent over slightly to enter his field of vision and tilted her head to the side.

‘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.