The Path of Anger (53 page)

‘So that’s how it is,’ said Azdeki as he watched the mercenaries abandon their positions.

‘The
Liaber Dest
, Azdeki,’ shouted Dun-Cadal. ‘Where is it?’

Slowly, the councillor lifted his hand towards his face to remove his mask. The fear was gone from his eyes and there was a sad, almost mocking, smile on his lips.

‘Are there still any soldiers in the gardens? Or did your mercenaries finish them off as well?’ he asked, looking up at the now deserted balconies.

Dun-Cadal wanted to take a step forward but almost tripped over a body. Laerte’s arm restrained him.

‘I can still stand,’ the old man growled.

In his reddened eyes Laerte saw a curious spark and, almost involuntarily, he nodded.

Slowly, Dun-Cadal straightened up, tilting his head to the left and right to remove the kink in his neck. There was no need for words; they were still linked by the bond that had formed when they first met. Both of them recalled their shared moments, from the Saltmarsh to Kapernevic, battling side by side, looking out for one
another like father and son. Without consulting one another both of them lifted their swords towards Azdeki in a gesture of challenge.

From the distant ballroom, coming down the hall of mirrors, the enraged voices of soldiers could be heard approaching. Perhaps he believed he would be saved? Azdeki drew his sword. But his face hardened when he saw the Nâaga at the entrance opposite. Rogant had appeared around the edge of a panel and, after a quick glance at the soldiers running down the hall towards them, he closed the double doors. Azdeki retreated up the steps on his side of the courtyard, breathing heavily. The trap was closing around him. There were no soldiers at his back to defend him; this private part of the Palatio had been mostly entrusted to the mercenaries. All that remained were those assigned to guarding the Book. When the door opposite was barred and Rogant had turned round, Azdeki spied the kneeling form of his daughter-in-law through the thick smoke. Lying before her, Balian raised a shaking hand towards the arrow poking out of his shoulder.

‘This it between us, isn’t it?’ asked Azdeki between two strained sighs. ‘Let them live.’

‘I am a knight, Etienne,’ replied Dun-Cadal, before adding almost scornfully: ‘I always have been.’

The old general lowered his sword and stepped to one side without taking his eyes off the councillor. But Laerte turned his eyes towards the wounded man Esyld was helping to prop up as he took hold of the arrow, preparing to yank it out. He imagined himself leaping upon Balian and preventing him from removing it, striking him with all his might until he cried for mercy, and then, ignoring his pleas, plunging Eraëd into his heart. Tears traced dotted lines through the dust that covered Esyld’s face and the glow from the flames danced in her pupils. Even dirty and with her hair in disarray, she was beautiful; the same beauty he had always admired in the marshes of their birthplace.

‘I have your word, Daermon,’ declared Azdeki.

His breathing. It was heavy, irregular, and had taken on a whistling quality as he retreated. He had already passed through the double doors and was backing down the hallway, keeping his sword hand slightly behind him. But his free hand was visibly lifting.

‘Laerte,’ murmured Dun-Cadal.

Laerte tightened his hand around Eraëd’s hilt, his belly knotted
and his throat dry behind the golden mask. Esyld occupied his thoughts, only her, nothing else could have freed him from his malaise. Not even the annihilation of Etienne Azdeki. Esyld had locked eyes with him and was standing, dignified despite her tears, one hand still holding that of her husband. White-faced, Balian remained on his knees.

‘The—’

Dun-Cadal did not finish his sentence. Azdeki stretched out his free hand and the doors immediately slammed shut. The
animus
.

‘You son of a dog!’ bellowed the general as he charged towards the double doors.

‘No!’ Balian screamed, almost collapsing as he pulled the arrow from his shoulder with a sudden jerk.

The father could wait; he wouldn’t leave the Palatio. Instead Laerte advanced resolutely towards the young man, who was now drawing his sword as he stood up, grimacing from the effort.

With a violent kick, Dun-Cadal separated the two door panels, biting down a curse at the sharp pain in his knee, and stumbled into the hallway beyond before halting. Laerte wasn’t following him. Out in the courtyard there was a clatter of swords. When he turned round, he saw Balian and his former apprentice confronting one another, while Rogant struggled to keep hold of Esyld, burning sparks fluttering down all around them.

‘Laerte!’ he called.

But the only reply he received was the clash of blades.

‘No, I’m begging you!’ implored Esyld.

Sweat beaded Balian’s brow, only the force of will keeping him on his feet. He sought to find the right angle of attack but his adversary parried with far too much ease. Although Laerte knew that time was running short, he enjoyed this brief proof of his superiority. He turned his rapier with a brusque flick of the wrist which disarmed Balian, before punching him in the face.

‘No!’ cried Esyld, weeping.

Eraëd sped towards the wounded groom’s throat.

‘Laerte!’ she sobbed, falling limp in the arms of the Nâaga.

‘Frog!’

The voice was like thunder, so loud, so commanding, carrying with it so many memories. The point of the rapier scored just a drop of blood from Balian’s neck. Exhausted, a red, sticky stream running
over his armour from his shoulder wound, the young scion of the Azdeki family fell back to his knees.

‘You haven’t waited all your life for this!’ protested the general coming up behind Laerte. ‘You are a knight!
A knight!
’

Rogant pushed Esyld behind him and threw himself between Balian and Laerte before his friend finally took a step back. The Nâaga and the young knight glared at one another, neither willing to bend.

‘It’s not necessary,’ Rogant said. ‘Not him.’

And as if trying to escape from the condemnation of his most faithful companion, Laerte spun round, stiffened by his bottled-up anger. His mentor waited for him on the threshold of the broken double doors. Behind him, a wide hallway extended into the building, lit by dozens of torches whose light danced beneath the caress of a night breeze. Laerte felt himself torn between two worlds, two eras, two desires, each as burning and as disturbing as the other. Who was he? Laerte . . . Or Frog . . . ?

Everything was suddenly unbearable to him: Esyld’s sobs as she threw herself upon Balian and folded him in her arms, the crackle of the flames around them, the smell of burnt wood, the bitter taste of the stagnant smoke, even his own breathing.

‘Frog,’ repeated Dun-Cadal, sorrowfully. ‘Are you a knight or an assassin?’

Laerte inhaled deeply before taking a step towards the general.

‘I am a knight, Wader, the best there is,’ he assured him. ‘The greatest one of all. I promised you that.’

‘Then keep your promise.’

There was a chapel undergoing restoration at the heart of the Palatio. At its rear rose an altar and the walls were lined with imposing statues of men and women in long robes. They had suffered with the passage of time: cracks ran over the stone, from the bases to their heads. Sitting against the altar a gaunt old man was moaning, his body bruised and his arms spread wide by heavy chains. A few strands of stringy white hair fell from a skull covered in brown spots. His half-closed eyes moved slowly from the right to the left as if he were seeing his surroundings for the first time. Between the divine statues hung bright yellow drapes and flames danced in broad bowls at the gods’ feet. Wide supporting beams crisscrossed the ceiling,
masking a vault painted with a damaged fresco.

Anvelin Evgueni Reyes, the last Bishop of Emeris and master of the Order of Fangol during the Imperial era, had known he was a condemned man for years. But far from resigning himself to the idea he was hoping, in these last instants, that someone would rescue him. He had seen him, he had spoken to him on so many occasions these past months. The man in the golden mask. He had told him all about the pact of the Book and the Sword, the importance of their separation, and the link between Uster and Reyes. No one, on this earth, deserved to possess both pillars of civilisation.

‘In my left hand the Book, in my right hand the Sword, and at my feet the World.’

Reyes was deaf to the councillors’ panic. He simply waited. The sound of a distant explosion had made him smile. The storm that would save him was approaching. And the murmurs of the gods would be fulfilled. It was not his destiny to die here, like some poor wretch. Not when he had governed the Order of Fangol for so many years. Of all the men present only the one wearing the tricorne, who was huddled against a statue, showed any sign of compassion towards him. And of them all, he was the one who did not seem worried.

‘Is it an attack?’

‘Who would dare?’

‘It’s the assassin, I’m certain of it! He killed Enain-Cassart and Negus, and now he’s coming for us!

‘Where is Azdeki?

‘Gentlemen! Please be calm!’ demanded Azinn, near the altar.

Draped in his large white toga, he had lifted his falcon mask to the top of his skull and made a soothing gesture with his hands. The twenty or so councillors around him were darting frightened gazes towards the entrance to the chapel, despite the presence of the Azdekis’ personal bodyguards in front of the altar. Silent in one corner of the room, the Fangolin monks seemed aloof from the commotion, almost serene. All that mattered to them was the half-naked prisoner.

‘What is going on?’ shouted Daguaret, pointing at Azinn. ‘Is this some sort of trap?’

He was immediately shoved by Rhunstag’s massive figure.

‘No trap! There’s no trickery from the Azdekis,’ he swore, looking grim. ‘So watch yourselves.’

There was an anxious rumble of voices. All of them were wondering if they should leave rather than risk finding themselves held prisoner. What they had been promised was evidently not going to be found here and the suspicion that they had been deceived was becoming a certainty. Finally, the one person who might calm their panic, the person who had lured them here, came through the door and bellowed:

‘Guards! Up here, to the sides!’

He walked with a determined step, sword in hand, his face tense. His mere presence brought silence and the guards obeyed at once, leaving the edge of the altar to position themselves to either side of the entrance.

‘Make way!’ ordered Azdeki, sweeping the air with his free hand. ‘Gentlemen! Make way! Form a guard of honour for our illustrious guests!’

He walked straight through the group of councillors without giving them a glance, his piercing eyes fixed on the man attached to the altar. When he reached the former bishop’s side, he knelt down.

‘It’s time, Anvelin,’ he murmured.

The old man barely raised his head, looking weary. Out of the corner of his eye, Azdeki caught sight of the Fangolin monks and beckoned to them.

‘Nephew,’ whispered Azinn behind his back, ‘what’s going on? Is it the assassin?’

Azdeki ignored him, standing proudly, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Had he lost his able right hand or would he finally prove to the old general that he had always been a skilful swordsman? In a minute, perhaps less, they would be here. So he faced the assembled councillors, still in a muddle and visibly debating whether or not to follow his order. Among them, Bernevin removed his mask, revealing a grave face. After exchanging a glance with Azdeki he nodded tersely and proceeded to divide the group into two, positioning them between the bowls to either side of the chapel.

‘Aladzio, bring it here,’ commanded Azdeki.

The man in the tricorne joined him, flanked by two halberdiers, reverently carrying a box of varnished wood edged in gold. Azdeki opened it delicately, measuring the importance of the moment.

‘Gentlemen,’ he proclaimed as he with drew an old leather book
from the box. Its cover seemed to scintillate in the light from the flaming bowls. ‘This is why you are here; chosen by the gods so that order may be restored after centuries of chaos and tyranny. This is what Aogustus Reyes hid from men. This is what the Order of Fangol lost.’

His hands trembled; the volume was heavy. But it was the information it held that made him shake. Aladzio watched him lift it above his head like a standard to which one should rally, raising his voice.

‘The
Liaber Dest
has returned to the hands of men, as was foreseen. And with its return comes our duty, our responsibility, however difficult it may be, to restore its splendour to the world.’

If they had been forewarned they might have reacted more calmly, but while all those present shared an unwavering faith, this announcement out of the blue came as complete shock. The Sacred Book was no longer a legend. Azdeki placed his sword upon the altar and with his free hand seized hold of the dagger at his belt.

‘The murmur of the gods was transcribed in this work, setting out the destiny of mankind, and the heavy task of leading the flock falls to the great lords of this world! See the book that cannot be destroyed. Do not doubt its writings!’

With a violent jab, he tried to plant the dagger in the book’s leather. A gasp of horror – and then amazement – ran through the councillors when the blade broke in two against the cover, leaving not a trace, not a scratch behind. The dagger pieces fell to the floor at Azdeki’s feet with a ringing sound.

‘I have brought you here for the
Liaber Dest
, and what it has revealed to us. The reason why the gods have chosen us.’

He then spoke to the halberdiers flanking Aladzio.

‘Unchain the bishop. Deliver him to the monks and let him be judged by them.’

As the soldiers carried out his order without much regard for the injured old man, Azdeki placed the Book upon the altar and took up his sword, his eyes turned towards the Fangolin monks who remained entirely silent and still.

‘Accept this gesture as evidence of my good will. The Reyes dynasty weakened the Order of Fangol the better to keep you on a leash. Be free but recognise us. Recognise our destiny as it is written in the Book.’