The Path of Anger (34 page)

‘Are you there?’ he rejoiced in a rasping voice. ‘You’re always there, yes . . . always. Like a memory . . . you never leave me.’

The shadow was silent. It examined him from behind a golden mask, split by a crack, showing no expression.

‘It was written, wasn’t it?’ Anvelin said shakily, torn between joy and exhaustion. ‘The gods had always foreseen it. If my lineage fell, you would return to avenge us, yes, oh yes. We weren’t wrong to believe ourselves fit to rule, no, oh no. We weren’t wrong. I pray every day to thank the gods, you know. Every day.’

His face suddenly twisted in remorse.

‘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. That’s how it always was.’

And his smile returned.

‘. . . are you there?’ he repeated as if the shadow had just appeared. ‘You’re always there, yes . . . always. Like a memory . . .’

The shadow’s green cape flapped as it moved towards the stairs.

‘. . . you don’t leave me . . . ever . . .’ sobbed Anvelin.

Dun-Cadal was sitting against the wall, his gaze lost in the grain of the wooden floorboards, without having any clear idea of where he was, how he arrived here, or why. He no longer thought, no longer reacted. His entire being was drowned in a flood of contradictory feelings overlying a terrible sadness. There it was, the dull pain, the wound that never ceased to bleed and was tearing his heart in two.

Beyond the manipulations, beyond the betrayals, there lay only one thing. But what a thing, to be the very root of his downfall.

‘The
Liaber Dest
. . .’ he muttered.

He barely heard the chair creak when Viola got up to come over to him. Her lavender scent drew him out of his confusion and he met her gaze.

‘After his son’s wedding, during Masque Night, Etienne Azdeki will present the Sacred Book to the councillors he has invited,’ she announced gravely, measuring each of her words. ‘Can you imagine what a man could do, holding the destiny of the world in his hands? The aura of power he will gain in the eyes of the people?’

‘He’ll be a god among the gods . . .’ Dun-Cadal suddenly murmured.

‘And thanks to Anvelin Evgueni Reyes, he has won over the Fangolin Order,’ Viola continued. ‘The fate of the Republic will be decided on Masque Night. Our policies and our beliefs alike. That’s why we are here, Dun-Cadal.’

‘And the sword?’ he asked.

He felt stunned, trying to find his place in this story. Knowing why his presence was required was unlikely to reassure him, but at least it would have shed some light on the abyss into which he seemed to be falling, with no end in sight.

‘You already know more than enough,’ Viola apologised with a wan smile. ‘Laerte would not approve my telling you all this.’

She immediately drew away, heading towards the door but her scent lingered around Dun-Cadal. The old man did not move an inch when Viola asked, embarrassed:

‘Do you know why you are here?’

She had halted in the doorway, hand on the latch, hesitating. The light from the oil lamp hanging on the wall blended with her freckles, like two fires merging on white silk. Her green eyes glowed with tenderness.

Dun-Cadal shook his head, fearing she had an answer.

‘I don’t know much about him,’ she said, ‘but from what I do know, and from what you’ve told me of your own tale, I think . . .’

She let her gaze drift about the room as she searched for the right words.

‘I think he needs you, Dun-Cadal.’

Laerte walked with sure but quiet steps, ducking behind the columns bordering the corridors whenever a patrol squad came by. Alert, he
continued onward, blending into the shadows without losing sight of Councillor Azdeki’s stately figure. He followed him through the palace’s maze, passing the great interior balcony that overlooked the ballroom before coming to the great stairway whose steps broadened as they descended.

Laerte stopped at the edge of the first step and watched Azdeki go down, his pace quickening and looking irritated. The councillor hurried across the coloured marble floor, passing before the great statues of the gods without sparing them a glance. The ballroom was immense, circular in form, with a vaulted ceiling painted with numerous tableaux recounting the history of the Caglieri dynasty, from the founding of their first city to the great battles against the Majorane kingdoms, the gods blessing their destiny until the advent of the first Emperor and his quest for the
Liaber Dest
, and lastly the portrait of a half-naked woman stabbing the heart of a strange-looking man with a shining spear. Adismas Deo Caglieri was represented in the centre, his eyes looking down upon the marbled floor studded with black stars, wearing a broad red cloak and a sumptuous beard giving him the air of a sage. His left arm was folded against his torso and his hand held a book. At the end of his raised right arm, Eraëd was haloed by a divine light.

‘In my left hand, the Book, in my right, the Sword . . .’

Azdeki disappeared through the large open doors at the far side of the room. This was not the place, and still less the moment, to act. Laerte knew it, but nevertheless the desire was overpowering. He could have charged after him, run him through with his sword and ended matters there, without delay, without risk.

‘. . . and at my feet, the World.’

No. Azdeki was not the only one responsible. And if the others, like Bernevin or Rhunstag, had not fled Masalia after the assassination of two of their number, it was thanks to their leader’s strength.

Etienne Azdeki would never give up. Not this close to his goal. He was far too ambitious, and if he had shown patience up until now, he could wait no longer. The day of his son’s wedding would also be that of his consecration.

Laerte took a deep breath and went back the way he came, deciding to skirt around Azdeki. He recalled the plans of the Palatio to guide himself, seeking the surest path to intercept the councillor’s route. Doubt nagged at him, sinuous and insidious. He knew he
was capable of facing this ordeal, he’d fought
his
dragon already. But when he confronted Azdeki, would he be able to contain the anger that had been devouring him for so many years?

For reassurance, he repeated the final stage of their plan to himself, the instant when, finally, he would have Azdeki to himself without risk of compromising anything else.

He took the building’s smallest hallways, preferring to move through the cramped spaces the guards neglected when making their rounds. In two days’ time, the Palatio would no longer be accessible in this manner. The tiniest nooks and crannies would be searched before Masque Night, and throughout the evening the palace would be impenetrable. Although he felt capable of taking on an army to achieve his goal, Laerte knew there was only one way to gain entry. As paradoxical as it might be.

So he ran, hoping he would arrive in time to catch Azdeki. He spotted an alcove where he could tuck himself away, relying on the shadows to mask his presence. Then he waited patiently, leaning against the wall, close to where a small hallway exited into a vast room lined with full length windows. Footsteps could be heard, coming closer and closer at a steady pace.

‘
Es it allae
. . .’

He had long pondered what he would say first, how he would accost Azdeki. He would have liked to scream his anger at the man, reveal who he was, make him relive their last encounter, but it would be a prideful act and put their mission at risk.

Azdeki had come to a halt, looking neither surprised nor afraid, his sharp face as still as the mask worn by the man a few feet in front of him. Standing with his arms crossed in the shadow of the recess in the hallway, Laerte took a step forward.

‘
. . . Es it alle en . . . Es it allarae
,’ he continued reciting in a grave voice. ‘Isn’t that Masalia’s motto: what you were; what you are; what you will be?’

Upon the walls draped in red, darkness struggled against the light shed by the oil lamps. It was here, not far from the grand private salons looking out over the outdoor gardens, that Laerte would begin the final act.

‘Who are you?’ Azdeki asked in a stern tone.

He had seized the sword in his belt, lifting the edge of his cape with his elbow. Laerte wondered if he could resist a duel with the
man. Would he be able to retreat as planned, or, consumed by his lust for combat, would he give in to the temptation of finishing off his enemy? He could stand up to him. This time, yes.

‘What you were? A more courageous man, a more intelligent man than you seemed to be, in order to manipulate those around you more easily. Isn’t that so? Did you really think you could emerge intact from the role you cast for yourself ?’

‘That mask,’ Azdeki scowled before raising his voice. ‘Do you think you frighten me with this display?’

‘The mocking, the contempt shown to you by the other generals,’ Laerte continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘That’s what you were. A whipping-boy, in the end.’

‘Take off that mask,’ Azdeki ordered.

‘As you removed yours before Reyes?’

‘Take it off!’ he cried angrily.

He drew his sword with a swift jerk and Laerte retreated a step, now standing at the end of the hallway.

‘What you are: a man at bay, as close to defeat as you are to success. An entire lifetime rides on the outcome of a single moment . . .’

Azdeki brandished his sword, taking one step forward. He did not tremble. No. He would never fear this assassin, but he would dread the masked man’s appearance at the very moment of his victory. He would double the number of guards and, thinking he was protecting himself, he would only weaken his defences.

‘And what you will be, Azdeki? You’ll be a dead man.’

Laerte continued to retreat, entering a wide vestibule lined with large windows. Behind the glass he could make out the shadowy forms of a garden, its gravel paths lined with tall torches burning beneath a clear night sky.

‘I know you,’ Azdeki warned him. ‘Whoever you are, I know you. And if you haven’t managed to stop me so far, you won’t do it today. Nor tomorrow.’

‘I’ll take that wager.’

‘Enain-Cassart, Negus . . . they were better men than you.’

‘Not better enough to defend their lives,’ Laerte replied calmly.

‘At least they defended what they believed in. And did it without hiding their faces behind another man’s mask—.’

‘Until Masque Night, Azdeki,’ Laerte promised gripping the hilt
of his sword. ‘On Masque Night, the two of us will finally remove our masks.’

With a brusque movement, he turned towards the windows and took a flying leap.

‘Guards!’ Azdeki called, barely making himself heard over the sound of shattering glass.

Laerte had passed right through the window. His arms folded in front of his mask, ready to break his fall with a roll on the cool grass.

‘Guards, to me!’

The reflection of the torches ran along the blade of Laerte’s sword and the clatter of running men in armour rang out. Lifting his head, he saw the guards halt at the shards of broken glass beneath Azdeki’s furious gaze. He had plenty of time to lift his weapon and prepare his first parry.

The spears he broke with two precise strokes, before seizing a soldier by the collar of his breastplate and bending him in two with a blow from his knee. The whistle of a blade at his back made him duck. He spun around and pierced his attacker’s armour at waist level. The man fell back a step, his face distorted by pain and horror, his hand covering the open wound. There had been five guards trying to stop him and he had disposed of two. But soon there would be more. In the distant darkness of the gardens, shadows took form, and with them came the sound of clanking armour.

He had to flee now or lose all chance of executing their plan.

He used the
animus
and the three swordsmen still challenging him flew through the air like wisps of straw, to fall heavily at the foot of the building. At the window, Azdeki stiffened.

The message was clear: the man in the mask was more than a mere assassin.

The two men eyed one another for an instant. When Laerte returned his sword to his scabbard, Azdeki almost came after him through the window but changed his mind, shaking his head. The new soldiers approaching shouted at him.

‘Halt!’

‘You there!’

The first to arrive brandished his spear, certain of hitting his target, but Laerte retreated promptly. With a firm hand he seized the wooden haft, pulled it towards him, and knocked the guard out with an elbow to the face. Laerte looked at Azdeki the whole time.

He tilted his head slightly and then charged at the other guards. He forced a passage with his bare hands, deflecting their spears, lashing out with his fists and his feet, before leaping over the melee and racing away through the gardens.

He easily outdistanced them, weaving his way through a labyrinth of hedges until at last he saw the wall surrounding the garden and reached the top in a single bound. From there he overlooked the city, seeing a sheer drop of some thirty feet to the ground below. On the far side of the street a series of houses stood like a castle’s crenellations. As he was about to take a leap to reach the first roof, he changed his mind. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones below and a procession of coaches appeared.

The parade passed just beneath him while the soldiers’ voices were drawing nearer. He hesitated.

The coaches were painted in dark colours and bore coats-of-arms on their roofs which he had difficulty identifying. But he guessed they were guests arriving for the wedding and saw an opportunity to take his little demonstration one step further.

He took a deep breath and jumped into thin air.

When he crashed heavily upon the wooden roof, the coachman barely had time to turn his head before Laerte disabled him with a kick to the jaw. The horses whinnied, cries of surprise rang out, and the procession came to a shuddering halt. From the sound of their voices, he knew there were women inside the coach. He rolled across the carriage roof and landed on the cobblestones, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest. He was losing control of the
animus
. He would have to pull himself together before he was overwhelmed and his body broke down. He calmed himself, breathing heavily.