Authors: Antoine Rouaud
‘I’ve been training with the other cadets, Wader,’ Laerte assured him.
‘And what if we’re sent back to the front tomorrow? You shouldn’t be training with the cadets. You’re a knight now, you blockhead!’
‘I’ll be ready,’ Laerte said irritably.
He finally turned around to face the general. Dun-Cadal’s weathered face did not inspire sympathy. His clear eyes shone with a cold, severe fire. Laerte advanced to the walkway’s parapet, hoping to cut his mentor’s criticism short. It was not the first time Dun-Cadal had warned him against Esyld, claiming she was a distraction from his studies, causing him to lose focus . . . That she was a bad influence on his apprentice, was that his fear? This man wasn’t his father, he had
no right to tell him who he could see or what he could do!
‘You seem to be spending enough of your time with Mildrel,’ he accused.
‘It’s not the same.’
‘And the Emperor doesn’t ask you to train all the time. Whereas I perform my exercises every morning. Even more often, since I was knighted. I have the right to see her.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Dun-Cadal repeated quietly.
It was unbearable when the general used this gentler, benevolent tone. Every time a discussion started to become heated he adopted this attitude. But instead of soothing Laerte it only enraged him more. Why should that be the case? Perhaps he thought it was how a father would behave . . .
‘And why is that?’ he asked angrily, looking his mentor in the eye.
‘Because Mildrel isn’t a refugee!’ Dun-Cadal snapped, raising his voice.
‘Not that again,’ Laerte muttered, shaking his head in disgust.
But the general was right. The entire court was buzzing with rumours. People were plotting against the Empire and the Saltmarsh refugees were the first to be suspected. The fact that the daughter of the hanged blacksmith from Aëd’s Watch was still alive was a miracle. She had benefited from a nobleman’s protection, but that wasn’t enough to stop people from talking.
Dun-Cadal was truly worried for him. A keen pain pierced Laerte’s heart. He was literally being torn in two by his feelings. For the first time he felt he was betraying someone he loved . . .
‘When the moment comes, will you kill him?’
‘I told you when we returned from Kapernevic. You should avoid going anywhere near her. Haven’t you seen the way everyone is suspicious of everyone else? Negus warned me. And then I warned you.’
‘I’m from the Saltmarsh too, have you forgotten that?’ Laerte murmured.
‘Frog . . . it’s only until this war ends. After that, you’ll have all the time in the world to court her . . .’
How he wanted to answer back, to tell the general that it would all end tomorrow, that Dun-Cadal would finally discover who he really was, what he’d accomplished, and what a powerful knight he’d become.
‘I don’t want you to be suspected of anything.’
He sensed Dun-Cadal’s hesitation when the general sought to place a hand on his shoulder. He immediately shook it off and took a step back.
‘Will you kill him?’
‘And even less now that you’ve been dubbed a knight.’
He had taken the oath, yes. He’d been knighted by the great General Daermon himself. His mentor . . .
‘Will you kill him?’
Laerte clung to the idea that the man had only been using him. They had been using each other as mere tools. Feeling affection for him was a weakness, when he should be concentrating on everything he hated instead. He repeated it to himself: Dun-Cadal had never behaved that well towards him. Always delivering sermons, telling him to work harder, ordering him to be silent in the presence of the great and mighty. He had never once acknowledged that he was a gifted pupil.
‘Shouldn’t that give me the right to see whoever I like?’ he objected.
‘Oh, don’t go thinking you’ve been anointed, my boy. There’s still some way to go before you become—’
‘I don’t understand,’ he interrupted with a dark glare. ‘I’m never good enough in your eyes, am I? Whatever I do, it’s never enough. Have you ever complimented me, even once? Have you ever said to me: “Well done,
lad
”? Even after the oath-taking . . . did you ever congratulate me? I would like to say that you’ve been like a fa—’
The words caught in his throat. It was filled by so much anger that simply he did not know how to express it. Worse still, a new feeling of sadness squeezed his chest and made it difficult to breathe as tears rose to his eyes. He tried to get a grip on himself and conceal how moved he was. Dun-Cadal must not suspect anything at all.
He lowered his eyes for an instant and then forced himself to meet the general’s gaze once again with a resolute air.
This man had taught him so many things, he could not deny it. But from the beginning he had known that Dun-Cadal Daermon had always been on the same side as the men who had killed his father.
‘When the moment comes. Will you kill him?’
‘Sometimes . . . I hate you,’ he finally said.
‘Does madam have everything she requires?’
The last words he’d exchanged with Dun-Cadal had been words of anger.
‘When the moment comes . . .
The words Esyld had whispered in his ear had only ever been words of love.
‘Madam?’
‘I’m fine, Marissa, you may leave.’
Her voice, although a little deeper, had kept all of its sweetness. Standing on the cornice, pressed against the wall next to a window which looked in at the sumptuous apartments within the Palatio, Laerte remembered watching her leave the walkway, that last day before—
A door closed behind the servant and then all he could hear was the rustle of Esyld’s dress as she approached her four-poster bed. He’d waited for night to fall before climbing the palace walls, crawling up drainpipes in complete silence until he finally reached the balconies. From there he’d crept over the roofs surrounding the tall cupola until he located the window belonging to the woman he’d recognised the previous evening in the big square.
He had not told anyone he was making this visit. He was certain Rogant, or Viola, would have done everything in their power to stop him . . . How could they possibly understand: all this time he’d clung to the hope of seeing her again. His memories of Esyld had prevented him from sinking into despair.
For years now he’d tried to find out what had become of her. He hadn’t believed for a second that she had died during the final assault on Emeris. This evening he set aside his mission in Masalia. He needed to see her again, to hold her in his arms, to kiss her. And never leave her again.
The chamber was luxurious, furnished with wide armchairs upon which dozens of dresses had been laid out, but Laerte took no notice of them. His gaze was irresistibly drawn by Esyld herself, sitting on the edge of bed, rearranging her hair before a cheval glass. She was wearing a long violet gown with two slender straps across her shoulders. Golden threads were entwined in her curls. He didn’t stop for a moment to ask himself questions or wonder how she had come to live in such elegant surroundings.
Obsessed, he threw caution to the winds. He threw one leg over
the edge of the window and waited for an instant, gaze lingering on her bare back, her gown open in a V to reveal the curve of her waist. He entered the room.
And his reflection appeared in the cheval glass.
‘Don’t be afraid.’
She gave a start, almost letting out a cry, one hand in front of her mouth. He slowly lowered his hood to his shoulders, revealing his face.
‘Laerte . . .’ she whispered.
She looked at his reflection, her face pale, without uttering a word, without making a gesture.
‘I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long,’ he confessed, trembling.
‘You’re alive,’ she said, as if she’d never suspected it.
He wanted to draw closer and take her in his arms, but she leapt up and spun round to face him, her hands sliding over her belly in a nervous gesture.
‘You’re here . . . alive,’ she repeated. ‘How . . . how did you find me? How did you—’
‘You’re just as I remember you,’ he cut her short.
She retreated, almost knocking over the mirror. The surprise must have staggered her. Trying not to upset her further he forced himself to stay where he was, staring at her with longing. So much time gone by, without her.
‘Laerte . . . what are you doing here?’ she asked with a sob.
‘No, don’t cry,’ he begged. ‘You see? I’m here, quite alive. I know a lot has happened since the fall of the Empire, I know that—’
He searched for the right words, aware that this was hardly the moment to improvise but, after all these years, he was afraid of spoiling their reunion. He had pictured this moment in his mind so often.
‘I tried,’ he apologised. ‘I tried to find you, but it was already too late. Something happened to me that meant . . . I couldn’t, it was too late. Believe me. But not one day, not a single day, has gone by when I didn’t think of you.’
As he spoke, she seemed to pull herself together, drawing in deep breaths. No, she hadn’t changed, she was exactly as he had always dreamt her – except that she seemed anxious rather than joyful at seeing him again.
He walked slowly towards her and she didn’t step back this time. When they were finally face-to-face, he shyly raised a gloved hand to
her cheek. His fingers brushed her skin, lifting a curled lock of hair. His eyes held hers and he sensed the rapid beating of her heart. The scent of her skin intoxicated him as did the carmine lustre of lips, the same shade as the dress she’d worn on the walkway that day before the fall—
Worn at their last meeting.
‘What are you doing here?’ she murmured, seeming at a loss.
‘This is where I should have been a long time ago . . .’
She tilted her head to the side, as if expecting a kiss. Laerte leaned towards her lips.
‘No!’ she said, and pushed him away with both hands.
‘The assassinated councillors,’ she said, starting to tremble. ‘Was that you?’
He did not know what to say. Should he confess everything? Trust her with it all, when they had only just found one another again?
‘Many things have happened, Esyld,’ he admitted.
‘So, it was you,’ she sighed.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he defended himself. ‘After the Empire fell I finally learned why my father was killed—’
‘It was seventeen years ago, Laerte!!’
She had raised her voice and he heard the anger in it. No, this really wasn’t how he’d imagined their reunion.
‘Events occurred thus because the gods wanted them to, don’t you understand? You come back to me now, believing that—’
‘Esyld! I know who planned my family’s destruction and now those same people are threatening the Republic!’
‘Are you doing this for the Republic or to satisfy your lust for revenge?’ she demanded in a very low voice.
She glanced towards her chamber door with tears in her eyes.
‘I thought you would be happier to learn I was alive,’ said Laerte, attempting a smile.
‘You said it yourself: much has happened,’ she confessed. ‘When I left Emeris, the day of the final assault, a noble family took me under its wing. The same family that saved me during my father’s trial . . .’
She raised her eyes towards the ceiling, letting out a sigh. She wanted to tell him something, but was evidently unable to summon the courage to do so.
‘I love you as I did the first day I met you,’ he said.
He could sense her slipping away from him and dreaded what she
was about to say. He finally examined the chamber more carefully, seeing the tapestries on the walls, the chairs with their embroidered armrests, the drapes hanging near the door. The luxury here . . . Esyld was no longer a servant.
‘All this time,’ he murmured gravely, ‘I survived by thinking of you—’
‘While I had to forget you, Frog.’
Hearing her use his former name, he felt he really had lost her. But that was impossible: she’d said she would always love him. She had promised. She came back towards him, taking his hands in hers, her head bowed.
‘I prayed for you, you know . . . I hoped that after the Republic was established someone would speak of you, that entire cities would praise your name and . . . and that you’d finally be recognised as a hero.’
‘I couldn’t, simply because—’
‘Good people saved my life, Laerte,’ she continued. ‘People who welcomed me into their family . . . and who have been elected to rule the Republic.’
‘All that’s over now, we’re together at last,’ he said, leaning forward to touch her brow with his. ‘I just need to accomplish one very important mission. Can you promise me that you will wait, until the day after Masque Night?’
‘Laerte, look at me . . .’
He obeyed, looking deeply into her eyes.
‘Times have changed. Nothing is the same as it was.’
‘Just until after Masque Night,’ he begged her in a murmur.
‘Laerte—’
‘And then we can leave together, it will be all be over . . . finally.’
‘Laerte . . .’
She was trembling. He wanted to take her in his arms but she drew away from him, her eyes misty with tears.
‘I’m getting married . . .’
He thought he was suffocating. His heart seemed to have stopped beating. He could not force a single word from his dry throat. Of course. The wedding, before Masque Night . . .
‘His name is Balian. He’s Councillor Etienne Azdeki’s son.’
In the hollow of his belly burned a terrible, devouring, pitiless fire. His soul seemed to have been torn from him, while his heart lay in
shreds. He was reliving the same pain that had ravaged him when his family died, but this time it rang through him like a death knell. The one person who had kept him standing had just put a dagger through his heart . . .
‘He’s the one who took me in,’ Esyld explained, on the verge of tears. ‘I had no choice. And as time passed I learned . . . I understood what they had done and why. They’ve been so good to me, Laerte . . . I had to forget you. I needed to. I could die of sorrow; or I could live again!’
‘You love me . . .’
‘I love Balian,’ she replied.