The Path of Anger (46 page)

Despite the blood running from his – now straightened – nose, despite the burning of his atrophied muscles, he continued to fight both the Nâaga and invisible enemies, from morning till nightfall . . . Until, at last, he found himself again.

Nothing had diverted him from his path. Not his thoughts about Esyld; not his questions about Dun-Cadal’s fate. Still less Rogant’s
gentle behaviour towards Lima and their burgeoning romance. Nothing could shake his will. Two years after his fall, two years after the Empire was lost, he left the villa.

11

TO LIVE AGAIN

One day, I will tell you about the Book.

One day you will know, my son.

He had removed his cape and was slowly taking off his jacket, facing away from the door. Opposite him, the dust covering the window shone in the pale moonlight. The young woman watched him silently, one hand pressed against the frame of the half-opened door, contemplating how the moonlight ran over his bare shoulders, highlighting each of the scars that clawed his back. He rubbed a shoulder blade, grimacing.

What combats, how many battles had he fought to bear so many scars? Had his heart emerged intact or, like his skin, was it covered in cracks?

She could have remained where she was, watching him undress. She might even have wanted to. But there were questions she could not leave unanswered. With a timid hand, she knocked on the door.

‘Laerte?’ she called, her cheeks blushing before lowering her eyes shyly when he turned round. ‘Excuse me, I . . .’

On his torso he carried the mark of yet another wound. She imagined tracing it with her fingertips while he recounted how he acquired it. But . . . Masque Night was tomorrow evening. Perhaps she would never have a chance to confess her attraction to him. The thought made her smile faintly.

‘If it’s about Dun-Cadal, you’re wasting your time. De Page has been warned. He won’t be an obstacle,’ Laerte assured her briskly. ‘As for the Palatio, Azdeki has doubled the number of guards.’

‘Good,’ she nodded, without daring to meet his gaze.

‘Everything is going as planned, Viola.’

‘Truly?’ she blurted.

He remained still, as if waiting for Viola to finally leave his chamber. But the young woman was determined to make him speak this time. Most of what she knew of him, she had learned from Aladzio, Rogant and, more recently, the old general. The rest she had guessed. She was still waiting for the day when he finally opened up to her. That moment would speak of a connection between them . . . or perhaps more. Her heart leapt in her chest, beyond her control. She clasped her damp hands in front of her, feeling nervous.

‘Forgive me, but I overheard part of your conversation, and—’

‘And what?’ murmured Laerte, his voice suddenly stern.

He narrowed his eyes, his expression ominous.

‘Who is Esyld?’

‘That doesn’t concern you,’ he replied.

He took his cape and began to fold it.

‘She’s going to marry Balian Azdeki?’ Viola persisted. ‘You knew her in the Saltmarsh, is that it?’

Laerte’s movements became brusque and he tossed the cape to a chair, annoyed.

‘Do you love her?’

There was silence. Viola felt a hollowness deep in her belly, along with an inexpressible sorrow which she quelled as best she could.

‘The wedding will take place before the festivities begin . . . an overture to the main event,’ she declared in a shaky voice. ‘If you try anything at that moment then all we’ve worked for will be for nothing.’

He shot her a black look.

‘Don’t tell me what I need to do,’ he snapped.

‘No, of course not,’ agreed Viola. ‘You’re a man. While I’m only a young woman, barely out of childhood . . .’

For the first time in her presence, Laerte looked down.

‘Laerte?’ she said quietly.

He replied with a strangely sad gaze. How she would have liked to go and nestle against him, be with him . . . try to make his sorrow evaporate with the heat of her body.

‘I’m next door if ever you . . . umm, if you want to talk about . . . umm, well, whatever you like.’

He neither moved nor uttered a single word. He watched her close the door behind her without calling her back.

‘I’m only a young woman, barely out of childhood.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, wondering how he’d come to this. He recalled how powerfully he’d resented those who’d seen him as a
child
, incapable of succeeding at anything. And now he was behaving exactly like them. Although Viola was twenty, he still regarded her as a young girl.

She had been fifteen when he met her for the first time.

‘You’re a knight?’ she had asked, seated at a desk with a pile of open books before her.

She had pretty freckles sprinkled across her still chubby cheeks, over skin as white as snow, and there was a mischievous gleam in her deep green eyes. He had not replied. He was there to meet de Page after years of wandering. He had had no time for a
child
. He had just returned to the villa, stronger than ever, ready to satisfy his desire for revenge. And now, nearly six years later, here he was. Sitting on the edge of a bed, in the gentle night-time warmth of Masalia.

He let himself fall back, his heart an open wound. Esyld, he thought, still loved him. Azdeki was holding her prisoner, that was it. He was threatening her and she had been forced to lie to him. He could not stop repeating her words to himself. Spoken with conviction in her voice . . . He struggled to find the slightest doubt, the slightest weakness, the slightest word that would have suggested the opposite. Just a hint . . . that actually meant
‘I love you’
.

Gradually, he drifted off to sleep.

Quiet reigned within the house. The lamps in the salon slowly consumed their oil. On the divan, Dun-Cadal looked wistfully at the empty pitcher on the low table. Wearily he looked down at his hands. Dark veins bulged beneath his spotted skin. He slowly lifted his right hand and held it out before him. When it shook with tremors, he gritted his teeth. So this was what he had become . . . an unsteady body . . .

‘“Rest assured,”’ he muttered, ‘“that in Masalia you shall find what you seek.”’

He had come to Masalia seeking death. Instead he had found what he had been trying to escape. Worse still, the life he’d been so proud of had been nothing but an enormous lie.

When the sun began to rise over the port city, Dun-Cadal was in the kitchen, standing by the table. In the middle lay a sword rolled up in an old blanket. He had never dared seize hold of it. Eraëd had hung from the belts of the greatest Emperors and while he had expressed doubts about its powers, never having witnessed them personally, he had been unable to bring himself to wield it. Out of respect for those he had sworn to serve . . .

With a quick, nervous gesture he unwrapped the cloth, revealing the glittering blade. His fingers hovered a few inches from the golden hilt. Who was he to let himself touch it? The man he’d sworn to protect had destroyed him. So who was he to allow himself to take up his Emperor’s sword?

If only it were not a vestige of the Empire . . . and what an Empire it had been: one of betrayals, of hatreds, of massacres and of corruption.

He finally made up his mind and, trembling, went out into the courtyard, his damp hand gripping the rapier’s hilt. As soon as he set his foot upon the gravel, he swung it round, almost letting go several times. There was nothing natural about his jerky movements; they were a symptom of his need for alcohol. Frustrated, he sought to parry the blows of imaginary enemies and struck at the empty space before him. But his moves were imprecise and he fell to his knees three times, cursing himself between his teeth. His sword arm twitched involuntarily and tears rose in his eyes. Had he lost all of his skills?

‘You’re trying to go too fast,’ commented a voice from the doorway.

Dun-Cadal glanced briefly over his shoulder. Laerte was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. It was possible the younger man had been there for a while, watching him make a fool of himself.

‘Your footing’s all wrong and you’re performing each move too quickly,’ Laerte continued in an oddly gentle voice.

Dun-Cadal stood still, watching him approach, and when he drew near, sought to catch his eye. But Laerte was staring at the rapier. He took hold of Dun-Cadal’s wrist and helped him keep the sword up, straight in front of him, preventing his arm from trembling.

‘Your body should always be straight, the legs very slightly bent to
maintain a good balance,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your leg is stretched out too far. If a blade doesn’t cut it, a club will break it . . .’

Finally, they exchanged a glance. Laerte could not bear it. How ravaged Dun-Cadal’s face looked to him, with sorrow weighing down his features, and huge, dark bags beneath his eyes.

‘A great knight once taught me that,’ confessed Laerte as he stepped back. ‘I don’t know if he ever thought I was a good student, or if he was ever proud of the effort I made to improve, day after day.’

He walked slowly towards the house.

‘But if I believed I hated him, I have no doubt it was because of what he represented, not what he was. I’m sure of that . . . today.’

He had just reached the front door step when Dun-Cadal’s hoarse voice murmured:

‘Frog . . . ?’

It was the first time since they had met again here in Masalia that he had said the nickname without animosity. Laerte turned. His mentor was standing, having set the sword on the ground. Eraëd sparkled on the gravel in the early morning light.

‘. . . is it you?’ asked Dun-Cadal, with a lump in his throat.

He seemed so tired, the corner of his eyes wrinkling, and there was a gleam of brimming tears in his eyes.

‘So it is you, Frog.’

Laerte did not reply. He understood the meaning of the words and felt their weight in his heart. With heavy, clumsy steps, Dun-Cadal approached. When they found themselves facing one another, the old man seized the back of the boy’s neck.

‘I thought you were dead all these years . . .’

‘I know.’

‘I thought I’d lost you . . .’

‘I know.’

Dun-Cadal was sobbing, his knees threatening to collapse under him.

‘Is it really you, Frog?’ he asked again.

Laerte tried to remain dignified but found it impossible to be unmoved.

‘Yes.’

Dun-Cadal broke down completely, shedding hot tears, for his life, for his fall from grace . . . for all the lost years when he never stopped thinking about the
lad
. He hugged Laerte fiercely, as if
afraid he might lose him again. Laerte had a moment of hesitation and then put his arms around the old man.

This man had taught him everything, given him everything, without ever suspecting Laerte’s true intentions. Laerte had judged this man before he came to know him, but over time he had grown used to him and, in the end and despite himself, fond of him. As the sun illuminated Masalia’s rooftops below and the city became bathed in a golden glow, he felt as if he saw things clearly at last. Despite all Laerte’s insolence and anger, this man had never stopped loving him like a father loves his son.

And here they were, reunited again . . .

‘Some moments are not meant to be shared with others,’ said Rogant.

Standing at her bedchamber window, on the first floor, Viola gave a guilty start. Behind her, Rogant was giving her an accusing look. She had not heard him enter, too busy spying on the two men in the courtyard.

‘I’m just making sure that everything is all right,’ she explained cheekily.

‘de Page has prepared all the details for Dun-Cadal’s departure. On Masque Night. He will not stand in our way. He’s nothing but an old ghost.’

‘It’s not that. I’m worried about Laerte,’ she retorted. ‘He never should have revealed himself. This story is upsetting him.’

‘Believe me,’ said Rogant as he walked towards her, ‘it’s not the old man who is upsetting Laerte most . . .’

She gazed down again at the courtyard. No, to be sure, there were greater dangers than the presence of Dun-Cadal.

‘Do you think he’ll try to disrupt the wedding?’ Viola asked anxiously as she watched the two men draw apart.

‘I’ve known Laerte long enough to tell you that he does not abandon anything . . . or anyone. If she’s marrying Balian Azdeki then both De Page and Aladzio knew it. And if they did not tell him then they had good reason. Now that he knows, he’ll have to decide where his loyalties reside.’

Neither of them were dupes. Whatever they said to him, Laerte would do as he pleased. He was the one leading this mission, he would decide what they should or should not do.

‘He’s going to make us miss our chance,’ railed Viola, balling her fists.

Rogant looked down at her with an odd smile. Outside in the courtyard Dun-Cadal was alone now, retrieving Eraëd. He hefted the rapier in his hand before vanishing inside the house.

Later that same morning Laerte crept out of the house and, finding a deserted alleyway, climbed up a long drainpipe to the rooftops. He knew the risks he was taking, knew that if he made the slightest mistake then everything could come to an end before he fulfilled his purpose. But the Book could wait for a few hours. Esyld was being coerced into marrying Azdeki’s son and that took precedence.

What sort of knight would he be if he did not come to her rescue? Even the possibility that he might fail and wreck their chances of entering the Palatio on the fateful evening would not deter him. He had mastered a dragon, fought at Dun-Cadal’s side, and faced four of the Empire’s greatest knights singlehandedly before defeating death itself. Nothing was impossible for him. Leaping stealthily from roof to roof he crossed the city undetected. He climbed to the top of a tall building overlooking the square in front of Masalia’s biggest cathedral and waited for noon to arrive. In the distance behind the church’s great tower he could make out the bulge of the Palatio’s dome.