The Path of Anger (16 page)

‘Calm down, you idiot! Calm down!’

‘Who was he?’ demanded Frog.

‘Azdeki!’ replied Dun-Cadal. ‘That was Captain Etienne Azdeki and, although it pains me to admit it— Calm down, by all the gods!’

The lad tried to walk past, with Dun-Cadal almost gripping him by the neck to stop him.

‘Frog! Frog, look at me!’

He was finally seeing his pupil’s greatest fault. Frog wanted to have fought all these men on his own, without any help from anyone. And even more without someone saving his life. He had failed. He’d been humiliated.

‘Look at me, lad,’ repeated Dun-Cadal in a quieter voice. ‘Calm down . . .’

He finally succeeded in capturing the boy’s attention. Nearby, Imperial troops were helping the wounded, whose moans mingled with the sweet singing of the birds returning to their roosts.

‘You’d like to take him down a peg or two, is that it?’ said Dun-Cadal. ‘Look at me, by the gods! Is that what you want? Me too! Believe me, I have a real itch to do something about him. But whatever you may think of Azdeki, he is a captain in the Imperial Army and comes from one of the greatest and oldest families at the Imperial court. That means you owe him the respect due his rank.’

‘That dog . . .’ growled Frog.

‘You owe him respect!’ insisted Dun-Cadal. ‘And though it pains me to say so, he was right.’

‘. . . piece of filth . . .’ continued the boy, lowering his eyes.

‘He was right, you pig-headed fool! What on earth were you trying to do, can you tell me? Use the
animus
?’

In a flash, the boy’s gaze challenged the general’s.

‘Yes,’ he snapped with a scowl.

‘You’re not ready.’

‘I can do it!’ Frog protested.

Dun-Cadal let go of him brusquely and then, after a pause, retreated a few steps, keeping his eyes on the lad.

‘We’ll see about that . . .’ he murmured.

‘No doubt about it.’

They glared at one another until Dun-Cadal turned on his heels and stalked off without saying another word.

The Empire had just retaken the valley of the Vershan and he was
the strategist who made it happen. In the camp, there were celebrations around the fires. Some soldiers had been dispatched to the closest town to restore order, but most were allowed a well-deserved rest. Dun-Cadal and Azdeki avoided one another. It was obvious that the captain held a grudge over being relieved of command in the Saltmarsh. His punishment would have been quite different if Dun-Cadal could prove he’d deliberately abandoned the general to the mercy of a rouarg. But no one could – or dared – assert as much to the Emperor. So there was a standoff between the two knights. Pursuing their quarrel would have been a hindrance to the prosecution of the war. And Azdeki hadn’t run away, this time.

The next day, in the dawn light, the men were slumbering in their tents, by the dead fires, or scattered here and there . . . The peace was barely disturbed by the chirping of the birds. A morning fog had enveloped the silent camp. Lying on his side, near the horse corral, his arms tucked beneath his body, even Frog was fast asleep. A boot in his back woke him with a start. He turned his head violently, grimacing. An imposing silhouette looked down him, but he couldn’t make out the face. The dawn diffused a curiously wan light around the figure.

‘On your feet.’

He seemed to need a few more seconds to recognise Dun-Cadal standing over him.

‘What . . . ?’ he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

He was still sleepy.

‘Get up,’ Dun-Cadal ordered.

Seeing the stern expression on his mentor’s face he must have realised that no amount of complaining would make him change his mind, because he said no more. Resigned to the loss of sleep, the boy rose from bed, his eyelids still heavy.

‘What? What’s going on . . . ?’

Dun-Cadal led the way. Shivering in the morning cold, Frog followed him reluctantly. They passed between the tents, wending their way among the sleeping soldiers. The smell of alcohol and grilled pig’s meat lingered in the air and the boy had to hold his breath to quell the nausea it provoked in him. When they reached the edge of a small wood, the air was fresher and more pleasant.

‘Master?’

Not a word. They entered the shadow of the trees, dead branches snapping beneath their feet. The birds were singing. After a time, Dun-Cadal finally halted and, keeping his back to his apprentice, appeared to be deep in thought.

‘Master Dun-Cadal . . .’

‘The
animus
,’ the knight said, his voice muffled, ‘what have I taught you about it?’

Frog hesitated. What was expected of him? Being woken up this way prevented him from replying intelligently and his voice betrayed his disgruntlement.

‘Not much,’ he complained.

‘Not much?’ repeated the general with a small chuckle. He turned round at last and for a moment his face seemed more relaxed. Then his features tightened into severity once again. ‘I’m not asking your opinion on the matter,’ he said, ‘but what you actually know. So? What have I taught you?’

Frog could not bear the knight’s gaze this morning. He struggled against his longing to close his eyes, lie down and rest a while, without fighting, without being afraid, without any of this. To simply close his eyes and not have to think any more.

‘Everything breathes,’ he replied finally.

‘What’s that?’ asked the general, cupping a hand behind his ear.

‘Everything is in movement, like breathing. That’s what the
animus
is,’ the boy explained, as if reciting a lesson.

He backed up a step, suddenly wary, when Dun-Cadal approached him with his sword drawn.

‘So that’s all you’ve retained . . . and yet you claim you’re able to use the
animus
with the greatest of ease,’ the knight sighed. ‘Very well. Disarm me.’

‘What?’

‘Disarm me!’

He spread his arms as if inviting an attack. A strange smile played on his lips as he observed his apprentice’s reaction. The lad was trembling. Was it down to the cold morning or the worrying prospect of confronting his mentor in a duel? It didn’t really matter, because Dun-Cadal knew exactly what Frog was going to do. When he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, the general’s smile froze.

‘Without your sword,’ he instructed.

‘You’re crazy, I’m not going to—’

‘Disarm me without using your sword. Since you know all about the
animus
, go ahead, surprise me.’

Although Dun-Cadal’s face let nothing show, he was jubilant. Opposite him, Frog had no idea what to do. He hesitated, at a loss, a far cry from the arrogant boy who had defied him the previous evening.

‘I’m waiting,’ Dun-Cadal murmured.

Frog extended his arm towards him, hand open. The general bided his time. He saw the lad stiffen little by little, the muscles in his arm contracting until it was shaking like a piece of wood that had been struck hard . . . but nothing happened.

‘You don’t know what the
animus
really is,’ Dun-Cadal declared as he resheathed his sword with a snap.

Frog lowered his arm along with his eyes, looking hurt. All his anger had boiled up again, ready to explode. A rage that had no other cause than his patent failure. Dun-Cadal was right. He did not make the slightest movement when the general halted next to him, tilting his face towards Frog’s with a hard expression.

‘The
animus
is passed from knight to knight, it’s not an innate gift. Whoever understands it is able to use it. So remember that. Feel your surroundings, Frog. You don’t need to open your eyes to see them. You just need to know they exist all around you. Feel them live . . .’

But the lad turned his head away as if refusing to listen. The boy’s pride bordered on insolence.

‘Close your eyes!’ snarled the general.

He did not have to repeat himself. Insolent perhaps, but not stupid.

‘Good . . . Now,’ he said in a voice that was suddenly quieter, ‘try to listen . . . the sound of the wind . . . follow it between the trees . . . fly with it . . . listen to the birds . . . not their song, no . . .’ He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and leaned towards his ear. ‘But the beating of their hearts . . .’

Frog’s face relaxed and his breathing became calmer, slower.

‘The earth . . . the entire world is like the air that comes and goes. The
animus
. . . the breath and life of the world. Everyone can hear it . . . But feel it? Control it? That’s much harder . . . You need to be alert, focused . . . Feel the
animus
, be the
animus
.’

The lad’s chest rose and fell more quickly now. When Dun-Cadal
saw him frown, he knew that he had taken Frog where he wanted him to be. The rhythm of his words, the peaceful sound of his voice, were hypnotising his pupil.

‘Feel the
animus
, be the
animus
,’ he said slowly. ‘Feel it, Frog! It’s there, the magic. In every breath you exhale . . . It’s like music, Frog . . . It’s not enough to simply listen. Feel it . . . legato . . . staccato . . . Now, picture the tree facing us in your mind . . . Are you picturing it?’

There was no more anger, no more hurt, no more tension. Beside him, Frog was straightening up, full of confidence. Dun-Cadal paused . . . before raising his voice.

‘Feel the
animus
, Frog. And strike!’

With a brusque movement the boy extended his arm and with it came a noise like the howl of the wind in the middle of a storm. The dead leaves lifted in a whirl; a furrow dug itself in the ground at an amazing speed, running between Frog and the foot of a tree. The bark flew off near some protruding roots and then split open a few inches higher with a crackling sound like the rattling breath of a dying man.

At that same moment, Frog opened his eyes. The general was standing ready, his hands on the boy’s shoulder. He had experienced this and knew the pain that followed the first real use of the
animus.
When he saw the lad’s mouth open wide with his respiration cut off, he recalled the burning that had run through his chest and the way his muscles had felt as heavy as lead. Frog fell forward, his legs giving way beneath his own weight. His mentor caught him and helped him to kneel.

‘Calm . . . calm . . . calm, lad,’ he murmured, hugging him tightly.

‘I— I promise . . .’

And the boy coughed, so loud, so hard that it seemed as if he were literally coughing his lungs up, as tears came to his eyes.

‘Frog . . .’

‘The
animus
, Frog . . . it’s something you learn . . . do you understand now? You’ll know how to use it one day. I promise you. . . but in return, promise me you won’t try any more crazy stunts like yesterday’s.’

‘. . . still sleeping, you can’t wake him.’

His body quivering with little jolts, still trying as best he could to clear his air passages, Frog nodded.

‘He’s still sleeping!’

‘I— I . . . promise,’ he managed to say between two coughing fits.

‘Wake him.’

‘He’s still sleeping.’

‘Wake him up, I need to talk to him.’

The voices were muffled, yet he managed to clearly understand each of the words spoken.

‘I must ask you to leave the premises,’ one voice said.

‘I have no intention of leaving without seeing him,’ replied another just as firmly.

Finally, there was light. Little by little, his eyelids opened over his misty eyes. Above him the faded ceiling mouldings were bathed in a golden light. He wanted to turn his head, but there seemed to be an anvil lodged in his skull, the corners striking his temples with every sudden movement. Grimacing, he sat up in the bed. He was in Mildrel’s home. Gradually, memories of the previous evening came to the surface. He held his head in his hands, cursing the fact that he was still alive. How he would have liked never to wake up, to be forgotten, not even a shadow, pure nothingness.

‘You don’t understand! It’s important!’

The voice was young and determined.

‘You aren’t welcome here, sniffing around in other people’s pasts.’

The two voices came from behind the closed door of his chamber, but he had no difficulty recognising Mildrel’s. Through the curtains, rays of already bright sunlight penetrated as far as the foot of the wall facing him. In the neighbouring room, Mildrel and Viola were still arguing. The two women were polar opposites; a courtesan who had spent her life seducing men in order to climb her way into high society had little in common with a young supporter of the Republic.

‘Leave him alone . . .’

It was not an order, but rather a plea. As she sat down in an armchair covered in tarnished gilt, Mildrel sighed.

‘You’re after Eraëd, aren’t you?’

‘That’s why I came and found him, yes,’ Viola replied. ‘Dun-Cadal fled Emeris with it. It’s part of the history of our world, my lady.’

The historian stood near the doorway to the small salon, her hands joined before her. Although she’d raised her voice to make herself be heard, she was like a shy little girl when she mentioned the sword.

‘It was forged by the kings of this world. Some say it’s magical, capable of cleaving the hardest rocks, of piercing the hide of the greatest dragons . . .’

She fell silent for a moment before tucking one of her red locks behind her ear. There was a dreamy light in her eyes as they peered through her round spectacles.

‘But . . . whatever you may think, it’s something completely different that brought me here today, my lady.’

‘He had nothing to with the councillor’s assassination,’ Mildrel assured her, seeking to forestall any accusation.

Viola nodded.

‘I know that. I was with him when the councillor was killed. But he knows the assassin.’

If Mildrel was surprised by this piece of information, she let nothing show. She had learned to mask her emotions. A courtesan had to be a good actress in order to extract secrets and, even more, to pretend not to know them.

‘I’m certain of it. He spoke of the . . . Hand of the Emperor.’

Mildrel looked down. The sunlight coming through the window at her back lit up her bare shoulders. A few curly strands of hair fell gently upon her nape. When Viola had seen her the first time, it had been night. Her visit this morning gave her another opportunity to observe Dun-Cadal’s former mistress. She was starting to understand some of the things she had been told about this woman. A flower that had barely begun to fade with time . . . She had expected Mildrel to intervene in her business with Dun-Cadal. She had even come prepared for that.