The Path of Anger (48 page)

He loved and respected him – all the more because he knew Aladzio was in constant danger, working for the Azdekis since de Page’s father had ceded his services to them, but secretly being the duke’s accomplice. Although everyone took pains not to raise any suspicion where he was concerned, if a single mistake were made, if a single message mentioning the inventor were to fall into Etienne’s hands, it would mean certain death for Aladzio . . . And for good reason. Theodus de Page, sensing death approach, had transferred him to his partners because the inventor had displayed such astonishing intellectual acuity since his earliest youth.

At the age of fifteen, he had translated a text derived from the ancient Gueyle dialect. At sixteen, he had written an account of the Perthuis dynasty’s ascent to power, described the victorious tactics deployed by the Marjoranes during the great battle of Polieste, and even proposed an effective counter-strategy. His only weakness was his instability: a gentle form of madness that he was unable to control and which, at times, distanced him from reality. It was a kind of childlike naivety, and it could always soothe Laerte.

‘Beakie has always been sweet with you. She’s very fond of you,’ Aladzio ruminated, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘Very fond.’

‘Aladzio,’ called de Page quietly.

‘There are bonds between men and beasts that must be respected, things that are . . . beyond the ordinary world, and you should not be scornful of them, Frog. I mean, Laerte.’

‘Aladzio!’

De Page raised his voice, and spoke with just enough authority to make the inventor fall silent. But he continued to look annoyed and muttered to himself as he set his tricorne down on the table to his left.

‘I don’t think Laerte has come all this way to hear you talk about your bi . . . about your friend Beakie. And we have more important matters to discuss. Am I wrong?’

De Page had no need to insist further, for Aladzio’s face lit up with a smile. He hastily pushed away several books lying on the table and dusted off the covers of others before finding the one he was looking for.

‘Heeere it is,’ he said.

He raised his eyes towards Laerte, looking delighted, and tapped the worn goatskin cover.

‘The codex.’

‘The codex?’ Laerte repeated uncertainly.

‘Of Gueyle,’ interrupted de Page, eager to get to the point. ‘One of the most ancient dialects of the former Kingdoms. And one of the first written scripts. This language was lost over the course of time, and would still be but for—’

‘Me!’ Aladzio proudly interrupted. ‘Ha-ha! Here we are in one of the first libraries of the Fangolin copyists!’

As he spoke, he walked backwards between the tables, with his arms spread wide and the codex held in one hand.

‘Books by the hundreds, Laerte! And in each of them, centuries of knowledge: dead languages, glyphs, descriptions, and this codex which establishes the link between the three
Liabers
that we know and . . . and . . .’

He stopped in the middle of the room, with a graver expression than Laerte had ever seen before.

‘I succeeded.’

Laerte’s face darkened. He gave de Page a black look and the nobleman met his glare without flinching.

‘Succeeded in what?’ Laerte asked, feeling a dull anger coming to life inside him.

Between the tables, Aladzio shook his head dreamily and then looked around the room.

‘In understanding,’ he revealed.

He hurried over to the ladder. The top was hooked to rails and he slid it along the bookcase.

‘About the power of the Book,’ he explained, running his hand across the spines of the volumes aligned on the shelves. ‘The power of those writings . . . and what it is the Azdekis are after.’

Once again, Laerte exchanged a glance with the duke and, seeing de Page’s contrite headshake, realised that his impatience was visible on his face. Was political power not enough for Etienne Azdeki and his uncle? Were they harbouring some other ambition? They had everything – the Republic, the
Liaber Dest
– what more could they want? He needed clear answers.

‘Aladzio,’ called de Page. ‘The facts. Keep to the facts.’

The inventor paused, looking surprised. But when he opened his mouth to express his dissatisfaction, it was Laerte’s voice that rang out.

‘What do they hope to do with
Liaber Dest
? That’s what this all about, isn’t it? Aladzio, you’ve translated it at last . . .’

De Page contented himself with giving Laerte an enigmatic stare without saying a word. The young knight heard Aladzio’s quick footsteps behind him. He turned sharply as the inventor drew close and found him looking somewhat sheepish, lifting a finger to the tip of his nose.

‘Not . . . exactly,’ he murmured, as if sharing a shameful secret. ‘It’s more—’

‘The
Liaber Dest
cannot be translated like an ordinary book,’ de Page interrupted quietly. ‘It has to be decoded. It is made up of poems, of thoughts written in several languages, and of engravings. They need to be assembled in the right order for their true meaning to become clear.’

‘It’s the destiny of men, Laerte,’ continued Aladzio, suddenly excited. ‘The legend of the monk in the Tower of Fangol, who heard the voices of the gods murmuring the destiny of humanity! For thirty days and thirty nights, he wrote it all down. Thirty days and thirty nights without food, without rest, until he died . . . I still don’t understand it all, but . . .’

‘But what?’ said Laerte angrily, pressing up against the inventor. ‘Have you decoded it? What do the Azdekis want? Tell me. Talk about that, and only that, Aladzio.’

‘I haven’t decoded it yet,’ Aladzio immediately replied. ‘It’s complex. I’ve seen things in it, yes, that could be related to past events, or could be warnings about things to come. But how to be sure of that? And—’

‘They want to overthrow the Republic,’ de Page suddenly cut in.

The duke leaned on the armrests of his chair and slowly stood up.

‘They created it but they can no longer control it. The Order of Fangol is losing its legitimacy, they’re being supplanted by other beliefs. Nothing is turning out as they planned. Azdeki dreamt of being a saviour; the people’s chosen one. He has always hoped to find a glorious destiny laid out for him in the Sacred Book. He wants to reveal that he possesses the
Liaber Dest
, and now that Aladzio has started
to decode it, it has become a matter of time before he is capable of reading it . . . and understanding the gods.’

Without even glancing towards Laerte and Aladzio, he carefully adjusted the sleeves of his shirt.

‘Think of the Azdekis, Rhunstag, Enain-Cassart, all those who had lost faith in the Reyes dynasty. When your father revealed the pact between your family and the Reyes Emperors – keeping the
Liaber Dest
secret for so long, and ensuring a Reyes always led the Order of Fangol – they had no doubt what needed to be done. They have always believed that the
Liaber Dest
holds the destiny of humanity and that the Order of Fangol is the sole guarantor of respect for that tradition. But now that they have founded the Republic, they have discovered it is leaning dangerously towards beliefs and ideas that do not suit them at all. They don’t simply want the power to make decisions. They want the power to shape a world in their image, as the Reyes and Usters did. Do you see, Laerte?’

De Page gave him an even smile.

‘We have common interests. Before we act, I need to be sure I have all the cards in my hand. At this very moment, Azdeki is preparing his advent. I need to know who is ready to follow him and I know where we can find them. To satisfy his pride, he wants to associate this moment with his son’s wedding. A great new dynasty will supplant the Republic, with the support of the gods and an Order of Fangol more powerful than ever. Your father’s dream will be swept away once the Azdekis have no further use for it.’

‘No,’ said Laerte in a murmur. ‘Never.’

‘No. We will prevent this from happening.’

‘When?’

Laerte’s voice cracked like a whip.

‘In a year’s time,’ announced de Page. ‘At Masalia, during Masque Night. After the wedding of his son.’

‘During Masque Night.’

‘After the wedding . . .’

The wedding . . . When he had told Laerte this, de Page must have known who the happy bride was. His silence was no doubt intended to prevent Laerte from attending the ceremony. In vain. A year later, the cathedral bells were pealing. And a man advanced slowly through the crowd, his face hidden by the shadow of his hood. Laerte made
his way forward without anyone noticing him. His discretion was equal to his rage: they were both complete. He weaved through the costumed guests under the very noses of the guards on duty and entered the cathedral.

The bells pealed, while Laerte’s broken heart quivered and jumped in his chest.

The bells pealed and, in the house, they sounded like a death-knell to Viola. If Laerte revealed himself before Masque Night began, all would be lost.

12

THE CHOICE

I did not doubt, no!

I never doubted the Liaber Dest,

But it had been thus for centuries.

To the Usters the Book, to us the Sword.

The great stained-glass windows lining the nave split the sunlight into a hundreds of multi-coloured rays. They landed on the tiled floor, caressed the edges of the varnished pews and enhanced the fine fabrics worn by the guests.

From deep purple velvet to the leafy green of their jackets, from azure blue to the pure white of their ceremonial robes, all of Republican high society was on display in Masalia’s cathedral. Perched on the wooden beams crossing thirty feet above the floor, and nestled along the cornices, turtledoves fluttered their wings, indifferent to the strange spectacle taking place before their eyes. They might have been the only beings to see the anomalous silhouette with a hood thrown over its slightly bowed head.

Laerte slipped among the crowd so discreetly that his presence barely registered. He insinuated himself between the guests, barely brushing against them and keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers posted by the towering columns.

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 Etienne 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.