The Path of Anger Page 15

  ‘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 i
f 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.

  Three years had passed since the Saltmarsh and the war continued, a string of victories and defeats that granted them little respite. On three occasions, they had returned to Emeris. Each time Frog had failed to meet the Emperor. However, although Frog had not witnessed the fact, Dun-Cadal had never ceased to sing his praises. As a result, Asham Ivani Reyes was following the progress of the general’s apprentice with interest, even raising the prospect that Frog might be dubbed in his presence. For an orphan to become a knight was rare enough in itself, but for the Emperor to deign to honour him personally was unheard of. Only a few noblemen had enjoyed the privilege of having the Emperor attend their oath-taking, the last being Etienne Azdeki. The general had never said as much to Frog, no doubt for modesty’s sake or to preserve his aura as mentor, but he was proud of the lad. Not a day went by without his performing his exercises, sometimes coming close to passing out. Nor did he speak of the pain. He continued to wait until his master was either asleep or absent to test his limits and each time, push them further. For modesty’s sake, no doubt . . .

  ‘Stop that,’ ordered Dun-Cadal. ‘A child like you will only do himself harm.’

  ‘A child like me could knock you off your feet, Wader,’ retorted Frog with a grin, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out.

  His face was more seasoned, his jaw squarer, his features sharper. Little by little, the man in him was becoming defined. A nascent goatee ringed his lips. Dun-Cadal noted it with amusement. Someday soon he would have to teach him to shave properly.

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.’

  ‘No, because if you were me, you would be years younger. And who was it who fought the rouargs in the Saltmarsh? Not you in any case. You were asleep underneath your horse.’

  Dun-Cadal smiled as he nodded his head, putting on thick leather gloves. He enjoyed the gentle warmth wrapping his fingers and seized his horse’s reins, putting one foot in the stirrup.

  ‘Now you’re bragging, Frog.’

  ‘I’m just applying your lessons,’ the lad protested as he imitated his mentor.

  ‘I didn’t teach you be a braggart.’

  The pair mounted their steeds and set off at a trot down a small path, barely visible in the snow. Here and there the earth was churned up into muck, but otherwise a smooth white coat stretched off between the trees. Silence reigned, disturbed only slightly by the horses’ hooves.

  ‘That’s because you don’t take into account the lessons I absorb from observing you.’

  ‘Flattery, is it now?’ laughed Dun-Cadal. ‘Are you afraid that I’ll kick your arse once we reach Kapernevic, to be complimenting me so?’

  ‘Why have they sent us here?’ the boy complained suddenly, drawing up his fur-edged hood to protect himself from the cold. ‘All the real action of the war is happening in the South.’

  ‘You’re not enjoying the countryside?’

  ‘You’re a general, Wader,’ Frog said indignantly. ‘And we’ve proved our valour many times, haven’t we? So why have they sent us to seek out this . . . this alchemist?’

  ‘Perhaps the Emperor thought it was time to cool your ardour,’ mocked Dun-Cadal.

  Frog had grown up in many ways but he still tended to talk back to the general. Showing more restraint than before, to be sure, even giving matters some thought before responding. But his anger remained intact. ‘Ardour’ was a very feeble word for it, in fact. He was sixteen years old and sometimes behaved like a child, sometimes like a man. The day would soon come when maturity finally prevailed.

  They crossed the snowy woods, descending to the valley, galloping through clearings covered by a heavy white blanket. They passed by several wagons carrying dull-eyed women and children who were fleeing the region. But where would they go? No lands were spared from the crackling flames; no valley, field, or road was safe from bloodshed any more. The war was everywhere.

  They reached Kapernevic beneath a pale sky. Its wooden houses rose on the banks of the icy river, hemmed in by two conifer forests. The stone chimneys exhaled wisps of grey smoke that dispersed towards the four corners of the village, flying over the watchtowers before dying above the surrounding trees. The villagers who had decided to remain here, or who simply could not afford to abandon the little they possessed, were bundled up in thick patched clothing. They wandered about like phantoms with livid faces and dark rings under their eyes. On the porch of a dilapidated house a woman sat, holding in her arms a little girl who looked barely five years old. Among the filth that spattered the child’s hair Frog could make out a few blond locks, like a vestige of happier times. Her eyes followed him without expression. S
he watched him blankly from the cradle of her mother’s arms. Life seemed to have deserted them all.

  It was beneath the impassive gaze of these poor people that the riders entered the village, advancing at a walk. Some soldiers escorted them to a watchtower on the far side of the settlement that looked out towards the tree-covered hills to the north. Not a word, not a murmur greeted their arrival. Until the chilling silence was broken by a laugh. Descending from the tower’s ladder, a round man was almost choking with joy. Clad in heavy dented armour, an animal’s hide thrown over his shoulders, he rubbed at his face with pudgy fingers, looking as though he could not believe his eyes.

  ‘They told me someone would come for the inventor but I was a thousand leagues from thinking it would be you,’ he confessed between two chuckles. ‘You . . .’

  He pointed a finger at the general who was dismounting.

  ‘You, here!’ he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. ‘My old friend!’

  ‘They should have sent you to the South instead! Has the cold in these parts given you an ever bigger appetite?’ Dun-Cadal jested, before the two men fell into one another’s arms. ‘But I thought we were supposed to be escorting an alchemist?’

  ‘Alchemist, inventor, he’s a little of this and that, my friend.’

  Frog got down from his horse, allowing one of the soldiers to lead the mounts to a drinking trough. Some villagers passing by the watchtower stopped to observe them with a haggard air. In contrast to all of them, soldiers included, the general and his pupil were wearing handsome kit that appeared to have never seen battle. Frog eyed the spectators with a wary gaze, a thumb in his belt and his fingers grazing the pommel of his sword. Wrenching himself from the embrace of his comrade in arms, Dun-Cadal glanced over at the lad. He was on his guard, as if this were enemy territory. What was making him so edgy? These poor ragged buggers? He read an expression it saddened him to see on his pupil’s face . . . contempt. Frog felt contempt for these people. His education was far from being complete . . .