The Path of Anger (17 page)

‘You think you can do as you please because we served the Emperor Reyes, don’t you?’ said Mildrel in a bitter tone. ‘You, with your studies, your history and your little round spectacles. You come sniffing around people’s pasts in your arrogant, impetuous youth, poking into our deepest wounds just to achieve your own ends . . . Your Republic has given you the freedom to judge others. But only that freedom . . .’

She brushed at her gown with a nervous gesture before getting up.

‘I won’t ask you again,’ she declared. ‘Leave my house. This is a place where a good many of Masalia’s gentlemen gather. Several of them owe me favours and would not hesitate to deal with you . . .
with the most complete respect for the very Republic you cherish so dearly.’

So it was barely veiled threats now. Viola felt her hands becoming damp at the idea that something . . . painful might happen to her. She just needed to cajole Dun-Cadal along for long enough for him to lead her, of his own accord, to Eraëd.

‘Madam . . . it’s a matter of life and death . . .’

‘For you, surely. I’d be surprised if
General
Dun-Cadal feels the same way.’

‘I must speak with him.’

‘All I need to do is send a message to the chief of Masalia’s city guards,’ Mildrel warned, joining her hands before her.

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ interjected a hoarse, almost broken voice.

The door to the bedchamber had opened without the two women hearing it. Dun-Cadal stood squinting on the threshold, one hand pressed against the door frame to keep his balance. He took an unsteady step forward with a grimace. This headache of his was obviously not going to give him any respite. He had been drinking for almost the entire previous day. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ he resumed, ‘because you can’t and you know it. The men who come to see your girls aren’t upstanding bourgeois citizens of the Republic, but passing sailors . . .’

‘Shut up!’ Mildrel snapped indignantly.

It didn’t bother him that he was wrecking Mildrel’s efforts to protect him. Both of them were living in the past and treated the future as their enemy.

‘As hard as you’re trying to frighten off this young lass, I’m not sure you’ll succeed. She’s very determined . . . aren’t you?’

He turned towards Viola. She gave him a brief nod.

‘Yesterday you mentioned Negus,’ said Viola without further ado. ‘A friend.’

‘Yes,’ Dun-Cadal replied simply.

‘A councillor,’ she added.

The old man’s gaze grew vague. His throat was so dry. Negus . . . he had betrayed the very thing he had spent so many years defending, too . . . His old friend Negus. His headache became so strong that he placed a damp palm upon his brow.

‘He’s arrived in Masalia.’

‘What can I do about that?’ he sighed.

‘Warn your friend. I’ll take you to him, he’ll listen to you,’ explained Viola.

Listen to him? Would they even still be friends after all this time? He exchanged a glance with the young woman. She was indeed determined. Her eyes held a spark similar to the one he’d perceived, so long ago, in a young boy.

‘Will you be a phantom for the rest of your life?’ murmured Viola. ‘Or will you act like a real . . .
general
?’

He seemed so weak standing there, with his bloodshot eyes and the greenish cast to his skin. She doubted it would be possible to revive a spark in him that seemed more dead than asleep. But she had to try.

‘What right have you—?’ the courtesan started to say angrily.

‘Mildrel,’ Dun-Cadal said, cutting her off.

He’d only whispered her name, accompanied by a simple look of sadness. All of this could not be due to chance: Viola’s arrival, Eraëd, his memories becoming more vivid than ever . . . the Hand of the Emperor. Something more powerful was at work . . . was it the divine?

‘Wait for me below,’ he asked Viola.

When the sound of her footsteps on the stairs grew faint, the old warrior ventured further into the salon, still stumbling a little.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Mildrel hissed.

‘Done what? Acknowledge that you were making stories up to scare her off?’ he taunted, before leaning on a pedestal table as he rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand. ‘You fled Emeris and the court just as we all did! You’re surviving in a Republic that has forgotten all about us. None of the people who frequent this place have any power over this world. The only thing you think you still control is me. But you’ve mothered me long enough, my beauty. The young lass is right. She’s bloody well right . . .’

The courtesan looked at him sternly. He would have liked to see something other than reproach in her eyes.

‘Mildrel—’

‘And what about her?’ she asked with a quiver in her voice. A smile stretched her red lips. ‘What does she have that the others lacked?’

‘She needs me?’ he suggested.

He walked to the door with a firmer step and halted, touching the handle.

‘He’s not the Hand of the Emperor . . .’

‘But what if he is?’ retorted Dun-Cadal, looking pensively at the lock.

‘You want to avenge him, is that it? Dun-Cadal, you’re no longer a—’

‘A general?’

He spun round so abruptly that he had to clutch the handle to stop himself from falling. A mean scowl twisted his face.

‘How do you see me, Mildrel? As a vestige? Leftover rubbish?’

‘That’s not what I meant—’

‘How then?’ he bellowed. ‘A poor old boozer? That’s what I am, Mildrel, a drunkard. I’ve lived outside the world for too long. What do I know about the Republic? About the people who survived after the Empire fell? If I can do something good before I die . . . not for an Empire, not for a Republic, but just to save lives. Like a knight would. Like a general . . .’

In Mildrel’s face, haloed by Masalia’s bright sunshine, he no longer saw any reproach, nor any anger or sadness. Merely affection.

‘Tell me . . . Mildrel. Tell me how you see me,’ he insisted in a dying voice, before adding: ‘It is him, it’s Logrid, I’m certain of it. He wants to take revenge on all those who defeated the Empire, all the ones who switched sides. It can’t be anything else.’

He opened the door.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘For you. You and me. How ironic . . . I was always so good at sowing death . . .’

He left the room and as he closed the door behind, he concluded hoarsely:

‘. . . but I was never able to sow life.’

8

KAPERNEVIC

Let’s see . . . you called me Wader, didn’t you?

Why don’t I return the favour?

As you seem to like these wriggling beasties . . .

You will be . . . Frog.

I shall call you Frog . . .

Each step cost him, each movement revived the pain in his head, like the din of some ferocious battle whose echo refused to die. He walked, doing the best he could to remain dignified, but his balance was so precarious that he had to keep to the walls and use them for intermittent support.

‘Are you going to manage all right?’ asked Viola.

In the street full of life and noise she was like a shining beacon, luminous, reassuring . . . her sweet face framed by those two dangling locks of flamboyant red hair, brushing against her cheeks. And the scent of lavender which floated around her soothed him. Masalia’s light-coloured walls were a torment to his eyes, reflecting the raw sunlight. He squinted, grumbling.

‘I’ll be fine . . . I’ll be fine . . .’

‘We’ve not far to go now,’ she said to encourage him.

He leaned against a façade, livid, cursing his drinking habit. Why did he have to drink so much? The image of a tankard came into his mind, as if gulping its contents were the solution he needed to relieve his pain. He looked down. His right hand was shaking . . .

‘Make way! Make way!’ a voice bawled.

People cleared a path as a squad of guards came into view. It was the fourth such squad they had encountered since leaving Mildrel’s house. They always marched at the same pace, their feet striking the
muddy ground, the tips of their spears sparkling above their helmets. They’d never been used. These soldiers had surely never been in combat but they marched, puffed up with pride. . .
Pathetic
, he thought.

‘It’s the assassination of the Marquis of Enain-Cassart,’ Viola explained. ‘Since yesterday afternoon, they’ve been searching the city for the assassin.’

‘Ha . . .’ murmured Dun-Cadal. ‘Good luck to them . . .’

They passed before an old church with its doors opened wide. On the front porch stood four men in black monks’ robes, their heads shaven. In the shade provided by the bell tower, they were reciting holy words in unison, holding a book open with their hands. Dun-Cadal recognised excerpts from the
Liaber Moralis
, one of the major texts of the Order of Fangol. He halted with a thoughtful air. How many times had he heard the monks’ sermons? Could he still remember everything they decreed to be good or evil? They were chanting almost, with fervour, attracting a few groups of onlookers. There had once been a time when hundreds attended their services, but faith had vanished as other religions came to the fore. The Nâaga cult, venerating serpents, was tolerated again, as was that of the Sudies Islands, which named their gods. Worse still, there were rumours going around of a ‘child of the waters’, a messiah who would one day come to purify the earth. Dun-Cadal had grown up in the shadow of the
Liaber Dest
, in which the destiny of men was transcribed, thereby making it immutable. He had learned about good and evil through the
Liaber Moralis
and respect for the gods from the
Liaber Deis
. . . Did the Republic still listen to the Order of Fangol in Emeris, or had it forgotten how hard the monks had struggled to create a just society?

‘We need to hurry, Dun-Cadal,’ said Viola as she stepped around him.

She resumed walking, the hood of her cape flapping on her shoulders. Everywhere, in the streets as in the squares, there was an astonishing mix of people the like of which would never have been permitted by the Empire. The poor crossed paths with the rich, Nâaga walked past without exciting comment, ladies dressed in beautiful, colourful gowns extended hands to well-trimmed young burghers. Even if they only exchanged few words, all of them had the possibility of speaking to one another, complimenting one another,
or insulting one another. Order had been replaced with a nameless chaos, bathed in a constant jumble of foreign languages and odours, sometimes pleasant and sometimes not. It was thus upon this soft muck that the Republic proposed to set its foundations, a far cry from the strong, hard cement of the Empire. This world really was no longer his.

‘So this is your . . . Republic,’ snarled Dun-Cadal, his lips twisted in disgust.

All this mixing, the scorn towards the Fangolin monks, the forgetfulness . . . this was why he had closed his eyes against it for so long.

‘Here we are,’ said Viola, not deigning to respond to his comment.

They had reached a large square surrounded by imposing buildings. Upon the pediment of one, he saw the wolves’ heads, displayed as if springing forward with open jaws. The building’s façade displayed the ostentation typical of the reign of the Caglieri kings, who likened themselves to savage beasts hunting in packs. For three centuries, shortly before the advent of the Reyes, they had carried out a policy of conquest, invading kingdom after kingdom, all the way to the distant Sudies. They had established the roots of the Empire, until one of them finally declared himself Emperor. He was the only member of the Caglieri dynasty to bear the title. The last wolf had died alone.

A wide stairway led to a pair of doors guarded by four taciturn halberdiers. Without slowing, Dun-Cadal marched ahead of the young woman.

‘Hey . . . wait!’ she said.

His step was quick and firm despite his fatigue. His headache was fading. He halted abruptly, looking over his shoulder.

‘You wanted me to see Negus, didn’t you?’

‘They won’t let you pass,’ she said as she hurried to join him.

She was probably right. Negus had been his closest friend . . . Was that still the case, now that he served those they had fought together? As soon as he arrived on the front porch, the halberds came down in front of his chest with a sharp click.

‘We’ve come to see Councillor Negus,’ Viola hastened to announce in a trembling voice. ‘We request an audience with him.’

‘No visits are permitted,’ one of the guards said tersely.

Since the assassination, the orders were clear. No one was allowed
to approach the Republic’s councillors before the great festivities on Masque Night. Viola interposed herself between Dun-Cadal and the halberdiers, her hands raised in the air.

‘I beg you to excuse my friend for the sudden manner of this arrival, but—’

‘Tell Negus that an old friend wants to see him,’ Dun-Cadal interjected. ‘Tell him it’s the man he believed dead in the Saltmarsh.’

And seeing the guards’ reluctance, he added: ‘He’ll understand.’

Then, with a wave of his hand, he invited them to open the doors. After a brief moment of hesitation, one of the guards went into the building and came back out a good ten minutes later. He admitted them without saying a word, and led them to a large hall with wide windows made of red- and gold-tinted glass. The sunlight passing through them formed peculiar oblique beams that landed on the golden brown tiles. Two rows of columns formed an honour guard that led to the feet of twin staircases framing a wide oak door.

‘Wait here,’ ordered the guard, pointing to a series of benches beneath the windows. ‘Councillor Negus will receive you in a few moments.’

Four soldiers descended the stairs with a measured step and took up position to either side of the door, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Were the pair of them really worth all these precautions? An old man with tired eyes and a young woman whose gaze shone innocently behind her fragile spectacles? Viola looked at one of the benches and slowly went over to take a seat. She was pretending to be calm, Dun-Cadal realised. She opened and closed her fists upon her thighs, as if trying to soothe her apprehension. He joined her, leaning back against a column with his arms crossed.

‘How’s your headache?’ Viola enquired.

The stained glass gave the sunlight a golden gleam.

‘It will pass,’ he replied, raising his eyes to the big windows behind her.

‘Did I . . . say too much?’ he wondered in a low voice, looking distracted.

He met her gaze, anxious to read the answer there before she uttered the first word.

‘Not enough to suit me,’ she answered with a faint smile on her lips. ‘If you’re afraid you told me where you left Eraëd, I can assure
you that you failed to mention it. You spoke of Frog. Of the battle at the foot of the Vershan mountains.’

He nodded, pensive.

‘You love him, don’t you?’

He went still now, his eyes half-closed.

‘Frog,’ Viola specified. ‘What became of him? There’s nothing in the history books about him. And yet you seem to consider him a great knight.’

His face hardened.

‘You don’t need to be in history books to exist, girl,’ he said angrily.

‘That’s not what I was trying to say,’ she protested.

‘Then what? You know nothing about him.’

He drew away from the column, looking ready to leap at her. On the bench, Viola shrank back against the wall in a panicked reflex. He leaned forward, his breath still smelling of alcohol.

‘Nothing,’ he repeated. ‘You don’t know anything about him. He was the best among us, the purest. The monks should have written of his great deeds. He would have been the greatest if . . . He would have . . .’

He suddenly faltered, his gaze turning misty and vague, before he slowly straightened up, clutching his belt.

‘The Empire would still stand,’ he said finally. ‘All on his own, he could have defended it. In my time he was renowned, you know. But I suppose it’s not in good taste to remember that under the Republic. He was renowned and respected. Have you ever heard of the Dragon of Kapernevic?

‘The last red dragon?’

Dun-Cadal nodded, looking away.

‘The greatest dragon in the North,’ Viola added as if reciting a lesson. ‘It terrorised the region for years until—’

‘Until we arrived,’ revealed Dun-Cadal. ‘Most dragons are stupid beasts, often frightened by the approach of men. It’s easy to fool them. Sometimes they even forget they can fly, which just goes to show. But the red ones, well they’re . . . big, rare . . . and extremely violent. We were at Kapernevic. We were there. And Negus too. It was the last time I saw him.’

The creaking of a door could be heard. They turned the heads towards the far end of the hall and saw a small pudgy man dressed in an ample white toga with a green-and-gold cloth draped over his
shoulder. He exchanged a few words with the guards and looked towards the visitors who had requested to see him.

‘And . . . ?’ asked Viola in a low voice.

‘If there is no longer a red dragon at Kapernevic, it’s thanks to Frog. And to him alone,’ Dun-Cadal murmured without expanding further.

And with a brusque movement, he stepped around the column to advance towards the small man. Viola got up from the bench to follow him, her hands suddenly very damp.

‘Negus!’ boomed Dun-Cadal in an unfriendly tone.

‘Councillor Negus,’ corrected the small man as he walked forward to meet them.

‘To me you will always be Anselme Nagolé Egos, also known as Negus . . .’

The two men stood facing one another. There was at least two heads’ difference in their heights but, although Dun-Cadal was glowering down at him, Negus did not appear intimidated. He challenged his former comrade with a certain arrogance in his bearing, one arm folded against his belly, his thumb slowly rubbing the inside of his palm.

‘At Kapernevic. That was the last time I saw him.’

‘It’s been a long time,’ remarked the councillor without betraying the slightest emotion. ‘My old friend . . .’

They remained thus, looking at one another, not saying anything further. And the worn features of their faces began to soften as heart-felt smiles crept upon their lips.

‘At Kapernevic.’

‘Too long,’ murmured Negus, presenting an open hand.

Dun-Cadal looked down at the outstretched hand.

He proffered his own.

‘Kapernevic . . .’

. . . a hand with red fingers; thick blood ran in his veins to counter the region’s biting cold.

He pushed back a branch to get a better look at the landscape below, a valley covered with pines and traversed by an icy river. Among the boughs of the trees he caught glimpses of the thatched roofs of the village of Kapernevic and its wooden watchtowers. When he released the branch, it snapped back like a whip, shedding the white coating
that clung to its needles. The crunch of snow beneath his feet did not disturb the lad behind him.

‘Have you finished?’ groused Dun-Cadal.

Near the horses hitched to the trunk of a pine, Frog was slowly swaying back and forth, throwing his arms forward as he exhaled. A furrow immediately ran across the ground to end at the foot of a tree. At every halt, every time they pitched camp, every free moment, he practised, sparing no effort. Little by little, he was learning to use the
animus
without suffering for it. Although his lungs still stung after each attempt, the pain had become bearable.

They were both wearing ample black cloaks edged in fur and padded black boots to protect their feet from the northern cold.