The Path of Anger (45 page)

He stifled a sob.

‘Esyld Orbey . . . ?’ he managed.

‘Dun-Cadal has fled, but I don’t know where to,’ de Page simply replied. ‘As for Esyld . . . I will look for her.’

‘Find her,’ Laerte ordered between two sobs, his mouth twisting in self-loathing. ‘Find her and bring her to me.’

Oddly, de Page merely nodded. In other circumstances, in other places, he might have reacted more severely. He was not the sort of man who allowed others to dictate his actions, but he was also sensitive and capable of empathy. He leaned forward, gazing into the young man’s half-closed eyes, whose swollen lids were shedding small shining tears.

‘I will do what I can,’ he promised gravely. ‘Until then you need to rest here. Great things are in the making at this very moment; a Republic has been born from the Empire, just as your father wished.’

‘But I lost—’

Laerte abandoned himself to his sorrow, his body shaken by spasms. The recollection of his fall continued to hammer his skull, in a dull echo of his deeper wounds. He doubled over with his arms pressed against his aching belly. Hundreds of white-hot blades slid over his skin before they bit into it and he choked back a powerful groan, a thread of spit escaping from his lips.

‘—lost everything . . .’ he repeated over and over. ‘They destroyed me, they destroyed everything. Everything . . . took everything . . . Lost . . I lost . . .’

He barely even felt de Page’s firm hands holding his quaking shoulders.

‘No, no,’ murmured. ‘You destroyed an Empire. Without you, they could have done nothing. Your existence, your survival, allowed
them to overthrow the regime. Your name alone let them justify their deeds.’

‘You’re—’

Laerte could only breathe in fits and starts, before lifting his head to meet the duke’s gaze.

‘—you’re mistaken. You too, you’ve already lost. They have it . . . they have it. As my father had it.’

‘I know . . .’

De Page knelt before Laerte and there was cold anger in his eyes.

‘The
Liaber Dest
,’ he acknowledged

‘So you knew,’ Laerte scowled.

‘Only after your father died, Laerte. When my father’s hour came, as he lay dying, he told me everything.’

The duke stared at him without blinking. And then tenderly he placed his hands back on Laerte’s shoulders.

‘Do you know what it’s like to be hated by one’s father, Laerte? What it’s like to see him, on his deathbed, jeering at you, because you did not turn out as he dreamt? The man was very strange. He openly wished for the death of his only son. And he even proudly told me exactly what he and his friends had done. They always regarded me as a conceited fool, a coward, a wastrel . . . an idiot. So I played along. I wore a mask. The one they wanted to see. My father tried to torture me when he revealed the Azdekis’ plot. He thought that knowledge of the
Liaber Dest
’s existence would be a constant source of suffering for me. But he was actually giving me the means to survive. He and his fellows would never have believed me capable of acting against them. And yet . . .’

Laerte caught his breath, recovering enough to contain his tears.

‘Bernevin,’ he said.

‘Rhunstag, Enain-Cassart . . . and several others . . .’

‘The Azdekis,’ Laerte spat.

‘The Azdekis,’ de Page confirmed.

‘Are they now councillors too?’ he hissed.

‘They’re among the founders of the Republic, yes,’ de Page said as he stood up.

Then he stepped back slowly, watching Laerte’s reaction out of the corner of an eye. No doubt he feared the young man might topple from his armchair in an angry fit, but Laerte was so exhausted that his head merely swayed and his hands gripped the armrests. Grimacing,
he dragged his left leg to the edge of the stool and let it fall, almost fainting when his heel hit the marble floor.

‘They are the Republic now. Your father’s dream.’

‘I won’t let them get away with it . . .’ Laerte swore, glaring at the duke.

De Page went over to the closest window and stood with his hands behind his back.

‘That is one of the few things which, today, I find I’m certain of,’ he avowed. He tilted his head in order to shoot a glance back over his shoulder. ‘But right now you cannot do anything.’

‘I can do more than you will ever be able to imagine,’ Laerte replied defiantly.

‘Think before you act,’ advised de Page. ‘You are still convalescing, and it will still be some time before you are in a fit state to do anything at all. It could be years.’

‘You don’t—
arrrgh
!’

Laerte had tried to stand up, but from his arms down to his injured leg the pain was too intense for him to rise. He fell heavily back into the chair with a moan.

‘They will not act before they have deciphered the
Liaber Dest
. And as long as Aladzio is assigned to that task I have the means of making them wait. They will still be there when you are finally ready to seek your revenge. And that could be perfectly compatible with my own plan of action. For we are seeking the same thing.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I can’t tell you more until I am sure of certain points. And they concern the Azdekis. Rumours and hearsay can be more fatal than a sharp blade. We’ll speak again. But for the moment you’re here as my guest. And perhaps, in time, you will become . . .’

He paused for a moment, letting his eyes drift across the marble floor.

‘. . . my friend,’ he concluded, before looking up to meet Laerte’s puzzled gaze.

Without saying anything further, de Page nodded his farewell and left by way of a wide door next to the fireplace. Laerte was left alone with the white curtains rippling in a warm breeze that brushed his face. Then silence and darkness returned.

‘The
Liaber Dest,
Laerte . . .
the Liaber Dest
. . .’

*

‘My lord? My lord?’

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the sweet features and fine tattoos of a young woman with a deep olive complexion, her black hair tied into a long braid. Lima was kneeling at his side and had a worried expression on her face.

‘You fell asleep again, my lord.’

‘De . . . de Page?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.

‘Gone to Emeris, my lord. But he will return soon, he said. And in a month’s time, one of your friends should be coming to see you.’

She placed a gentle hand on his wrist, a hand that he lacked the strength to push away although he was quivering from her touch as if it were an assault.

‘My lord, it would be better if you lay down. I will call people to carry you to your bed.’

The world outside the villa was by no means welcoming, filled with violence, treachery, lies and rancour. Yet his personal universe was not appealing, either. His own body had become an enemy, reduced to being a constant source of pain. He could barely make out the silhouettes of the three men in blue jackets who came to carry him.

His eyelids had already closed, like the dark doors of a building in ruins, by the time he reached his bed.

The weeks that followed were punctuated by slow awakenings and sudden slumbers. Little by little, the fainting spells brought on by the pain grew less frequent and his sleeping cycle became more natural. The crimson sun of autumn was replaced by the pale shades of winter and frost. Laerte still couldn’t walk and barely managed to remain upright for a few seconds before fatigue began to weigh down every movement. As Lima had said, one of his friends moved into the villa to assist him.

It was Rogant, who was thoughtful, calm and sober in speech. Neither man was inclined towards long discussions by the fireside in the evening; they were satisfied with the simple pleasure of sitting side by side, like two friends. Rogant’s friendship: it was one of the few things Laerte could be happy he had preserved. Something the Azdekis could not take away from him.

Rogant kept him abreast of news, of de Page’s efforts – so far, in
vain – to locate Esyld, of the latest laws passed by the newly established Council . . . and of the strange behaviour of those the young man loathed most: neither Azdeki, nor Rhunstag, nor Bernevin, nor Enain-Cassart made any attempt to accumulate more power. Councillors they were, councillors they remained. They took part in debates, represented their electors’ interests within the Republic’s legislature and did nothing more.

Oratio of Uster’s dream was becoming a reality, embraced by a people full of admiration for their new institutions and filled with fresh hope and aspirations. But it was his enemies who were bringing it all about; the same enemies who had destroyed his life.

One evening, at the end of a meal at the big table in the dining room, Rogant said some unfortunate words.

‘What they’re doing is good . . .’

Laerte pushed his plate away with the back of his hand, looking flushed, his back hunched. His eyes narrowed, he stared at the bread-crumbs that dotted the great red tablecloth with silver embroidery. The glow from the candelabra danced over his face, which was still marked by his wounds.

‘Did you hear me?’

Rogant remained calm. Laerte set his cutlery down alongside his plate, in the middle of which one poor small chicken bone sat on top of a mishmash of vegetables. When his eyes finally moved away from the remains of his dinner, he could not meet his friend’s gaze. Laerte was struggling to contain his growing anger. Rogant carried on.

‘Whatever crimes they may have committed in the past, the people support them,’ he explained. ‘They’ve given the people a voice. They’ve changed things, Laerte. You can’t fight against that. Nobody can.’

Laerte’s sole response was a brief movement of his head to one side. Only the scattered breadcrumbs seemed to interest him.

‘Vengeance is not the right path to take . . . Anger will destroy you,’ Rogant murmured.

At last the young man’s bright eyes shifted towards him. Among the tears filling his eyelids, there shone a beastly light, an anger like a devouring fire. No words could quench such rage.

‘My people are free now,’ Rogant said, in a last attempt to reason with his friend. ‘These men will pay for their crimes, but according to the will of the Republic, not yours . . . Let de Page take care of this.
Don’t ruin your life. You’ve already suffered more than enough.’

Laerte slowly placed his hands on the edge of the table and, pushing with his palms, he backed away at an angle, grimacing. Rogant immediately rose from his seat.

‘It’s still too soon for you to stand up, you can’t walk yet.’

No words were spoken to contradict him, but Laerte’s baleful glare remained fixed upon the Nâaga. Lima appeared at the dining room door, looking hesitant. A very odd scene was being played out before her eyes. Rogant was standing in front of the young man, as if ready to push him back down. Which he did as soon as Laerte sought to rise, pressing his hands on the armrests of his chair to push himself up.

‘You’re weak,’ the Nâaga said bluntly.

There was a moment of silence. Laerte tilted his head forward, gritting his teeth but keeping his eyes fixed upon his friend. The armrests creaked beneath the pressure of his fingers.

‘You’re weak,’ repeated Rogant, pushing him back down again as he tried to rise a second time.

Once more, Laerte, moaning, tried to stand. He thought his legs were about to break as he rose, his eyes still locked with the Nâaga’s. An intense jolt of pain ran through his body and his brow beaded with sweat. Yet . . . he refused to give up.

‘You’re weak.’

Neither man was prepared to look away from the other. In her corner, Lima watched them match wills, astonished. Nervously, she rubbed her hands upon her apron. It was a miracle that Laerte had survived as long as he had. But the idea that he might walk again, and so soon, was almost unimaginable. His body was still so tired, so marked by his ordeal, that he might fall to pieces at any moment. Yet, despite every difficulty, he did not bend.

Facing Laerte, the colossus eyed him carefully before taking a step forward. At that point only, Laerte fell back heavily into his armchair. But he had made his point. With Rogant, words weren’t necessary. Laerte’s determination was too strong for this to be a mere fit of ill temper.

He would see matters through to the end.

And that was how he started to walk again. One step, then two . . . and finally three. The days went by, then the weeks and the months.
The pain faded before the sheer strength of his rage. Only his anger was enough to make him forget his suffering, to make him push his limits further every time, until he finally fell from exhaustion.

Spring, then summer . . . and at last he could get out into the fresh air by his own means, seeing dry lands dotted with yellowed grass; a broken countryside lulled by the sound of crickets.

Rogant remained by his side.

Laerte took a sword, struck the air with it, and screamed when his shoulder responded as if it had been smashed by a hammer blow. But he repeated the move, and then again. Many times. Slowly. And then more surely.

The tufts of grass eventually wilted. Autumn approached. The heat disappeared, and Rogant was still there, watching him regain his bearings. When Laerte was ready to cross swords again the Nâaga became his sparring partner, placing himself before his friend to parry his blows.

‘. . . a great . . .’

Laerte retook possession of his being. He regained control of his movements. Another year passed

‘. . . mighty . . .’

De Page returned. Unhappily, he bore no news of Esyld. The Republic was gradually consolidating itself but it remained fragile. Laerte was so focused on his desire for revenge that he brushed away any doubts about the duke’s motives. The fact that they shared a common goal was enough.

‘. . . and magnificent work . . .’

Thrust . . . Parry . . . The movements became fluid and controlled once more, until the day came when he felt ready to use the
animus
again.

The effort was exhausting. The first time he tried it he fainted and Rogant had to catch him before his head hit a rocky outcrop in the villa’s garden.

‘Feel the
animus,
be the
animus.’