A small gray mouse skipped backwards but, being somewhat more daring than Lieutenant Soll, did not immediately dash into its hole. Instead it stopped just at the threshold, its inquisitive black eyes glittering up at Egert.
Egert wanted to kill it.
Dilia waited for him with an indulgent grin on her face. “Oh, these guards! Why this whimsy, Egert? Why are you teasing me? Come to me, my lieutenant.”
And again she wrapped her arms around him, but Egert, expertly caressing this swooning, feminine body, remained cold and unresponsive.
Then, bringing her lips right up to his ear, Dilia began to whisper tenderly, “We’re alone, alone in this house. Your captain is now far away, Egert. You don’t hear his steps on the stairs. He’s there in the camp, in his tent, guarding his flock. He’s a stalwart captain; he checks on the sentries every hour. Hold me, my valiant Egert: we have the whole night ahead of us.”
Lulled by her whispers, he finally stopped listening so attentively, and his young passion again took the upper hand. His body found its former strength and tension. It burned. It came back to life. Dilia purred and bit down on his shoulder; Egert sank into her with uncontrollable greed. The sweetest moment was near when the front door banged open; the sounds of furtive footsteps could be heard from below.
The world went dark in front of Egert’s eyes; all his blood, set on fire by passion, rushed away from his face, which gleamed milky white in the half-darkness. Cold sweat dropped onto the delicate skin of the beauty under him. Shivering as if from fever, Egert slithered off her and crawled to the side of the bed.
Subdued voices chattered below. Dishes clinked in the kitchen. It was amazing how sharp Egert’s hearing was at that moment! Again footsteps, a hushed curse, a hiss calling for silence …
“It’s the servants returning,” Dilia explained languorously. “Really, Egert, this isn’t the way to behave toward a woman in love.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Egert wrapped his naked arms around his chest. Heaven, why was he such a disgrace! He wanted to flee without looking back, but the thought of running and thereby leaving Dilia at a loss caused his jaw to clench.
“What’s wrong with you, my dear friend?” the captain’s wife asked quietly from behind his back.
He wanted to lash out at himself, beat away this horror, but instead he unclenched his teeth, scarcely feeling the pain in his jaw.
“Egert”—bitter pique slithered into Dilia’s voice—“don’t you love me anymore?”
I’m sick, Egert wanted to say, but then he thought better of it and kept quiet. Heaven, that would be an idiotic thing to do!
“I love you,” he said hoarsely.
The servants below finally settled down, and the house was once again steeped in silence.
“Did I take off my chastity belt for nothing?” Dilia’s words, venomous as a poisoned dart, stabbed Egert’s naked back.
And again, he conquered himself. Cold and clammy, he crawled back under the blanket: Dilia might as well have been lying next to a frog or a newt. The beauty, insulted, pulled back, but Egert drew her to himself with wooden arms.
Miraculously, his body was still strong and voracious. Having twice survived a shock, it still again desired love, like a bonfire, mercilessly doused with water, can still restore itself from a single spark.
Dilia revived as well, meeting him halfway; within a few minutes, the room resounded with lustful growls. Egert was intent on his goal, no longer thinking of pleasure: the sooner he could get this business over with and reclaim whatever small shreds of his former reputation that were left, the better. Only a few seconds remained until the desired end. The entire house was sunk in silence, the town was sleeping, tranquillity covered the entire midnight world, and it seemed there was nothing that could keep Egert from finishing what he had started, when once again the image of the captain, rushing into the room accompanied by Dron and the guards, reared up in his imagination. The picture was so clear and vivid that Egert even saw the streaks of red in their bloodshot eyes, and he could practically feel a rough, gnarled hand seizing the edge of the blanket. Egert winced, imagining the kick that would come next.
He went limp, like a disemboweled carcass. It was all in vain; any further effort on his part was fruitless, and further repetitions of the scene would only be despicable and ludicrous. Egert Soll, the premier lover in town, was doomed to failure.
Dilia began to laugh mockingly.
Egert sprang up, scooped his clothes up into his arms, and dashed to the window. Along the way, he lost half his wardrobe, knocked the tray with wine and fruit onto the floor, and overturned a table. Flying up onto the windowsill, his heart failed him at the sight of the height of the second story, but it was already too late; he could no longer stop himself. Flying through the window with a burst of speed, the magnificent Egert Soll tumbled into a flower bed like a stone, destroying the rhododendrons and earning the eternal damnation of the gardener. Dressing as he fled, getting tangled in a heap of sleeves and trousers, weeping from shame and pain, Egert rushed toward his home, and it was lucky that there were still a few hours left until dawn and no one saw the renowned lieutenant in such a pitiful state.
* * *
When they returned to the city, the first thing the guards did was inquire after the health of Lieutenant Soll. With a bitter smile, a pale, haggard Egert assured the messengers who arrived at his house that he was on the mend.
Gossip about his failure with Dilia became the property of wicked tongues the very next day; it was passed on with relish and satisfaction, but in their heart of hearts no one really believed it. They thought it more likely that the infamous captain’s wife was getting revenge for a lovers’ quarrel.
Egert could only find comfort in solitude. He spent days on end either locked away in his room or roaming the deserted streets. It was during one of these rambles that a simple and horrifying thought occurred to him for the first time: What if what was happening to him was not a happenstance or a momentary indisposition? What if this neurosis dragged out even longer, for months, years, forever?
Egert temporarily freed himself from mustering and patrols, he diligently avoided the company of his comrades, it terrified him to think of visiting a woman, and his forgotten sword stood in the corner of his room like a disciplined child. The sighs of the elder Soll could be heard around the entire house. He understood as well as his son that Egert could not go on like this: he either had to get better or leave the regiment.
From time to time, Egert’s mother would appear at the door to her son’s room. Having stood there a few minutes, she would slowly make her way back to her own room. One time, however, encountering Egert in his sitting room, she did not remain silent as usual, but cautiously grasped the collar of his shirt.
“My son, what is wrong with you?” Raising herself up on her toes, she laid a hand on his forehead as if checking him for fever.
The last time she had asked him about anything was about five years ago. He had long ago gotten out of the habit of talking with his mother, and he had forgotten the touch of her tiny, dry fingers on his brow.
“Egert, what happened?”
At a loss, he could not squeeze out a single word.
* * *
From that time onward, he began to avoid his mother as well. His solitary outings became bleaker and bleaker until, one day, not even knowing how he got there, Egert stumbled upon the town cemetery.
He had not visited the cemetery since he was a child; fortunately for him, all his relatives and friends were still alive. Egert had never understood why people would want to visit this abode of the dead. Now, passing through the boundary hedge, a shudder coursed through him and he stopped. The cemetery seemed strange to him, frightening, as if it did not belong in this world.
The crippled caretaker peered out of his little hut and then disappeared. Egert shivered. He wanted to leave, but instead he slowly made his way along the paths that wound among the memorials.
; The graves of the richer folk were marked with marble while those of the poorer, with granite: small statues, hewn from stone, topped both kinds. Almost all of them depicted forlorn, weary birds perching on the gravestones, according to the tradition of Kavarren.
Egert walked on and on; he had long ago started to feel ill at ease, but he kept reading the partially effaced inscriptions on the headstones as though he were enchanted. It started to rain. The drops flowed along the stone beaks and drooping wings of the birds, and little rivulets ran through the lifeless claws that hooked into the headstones. The day had passed into a gray fog, and from out of that veil, limp marble eagles lurched toward Egert; tiny swallows with raised wings and cranes with lowered necks loomed and then passed. Entire families reposed in these vast enclosures. On one headstone, two nestling doves sat motionlessly. On another, a small, haggard wren bowed its head limply, and the inscription on the stone, inundated with water, compelled Egert to pause:
I shall take wing once more.
Water streamed over Egert’s face. Exhausted, he decided to leave. As he approached the exit, a gray, moist vapor began to rise from the ground.
At the very edge of the cemetery, he stopped.
To the side of the path loomed a fresh grave without a monument, covered with a slick, granite slab. Letters bled through the puddles on the gray slab: DINAR DARRAN.
That was it. No other words, no symbols, no message. But perhaps this is an entirely different person, thought Egert anxiously. Maybe this is another Dinar.
Scarcely aware that his feet were moving, he drew nearer to the grave. Dinar Darran. A carriage by the entrance to the Noble Sword and a girl of strange, perfect beauty. A curved line drawn right in front of Egert’s boots and the formless red splotches on her face: “Dinar!”
Egert flinched. Toria’s voice rang so clearly in his ears, like the crash of shattered glass: “Dinar? Dinar? Dinar!”
A tired stone bird would never alight on this grave.
The caretaker once again leaned out of his hut, staring at Egert in alert astonishment.
Egert turned away from the grave and fled from the cemetery as fast as he could.
* * *
Far from Kavarren, in a dark and empty alley, a poor man sat still as a statue. The smell of rotten fish coming from the river was thick in the air.
Steps echoed down the lane, and a young fellow of about seventeen, fat-cheeked and plump as a roll, came into view. Clearly he was lost; it seemed that someone sent him in a wrong direction. After reaching the place where the poor man was seated, the fellow slowed down:
“Hmmm…”
He was confused … or was frightened; there, in the alley, it was quiet and desolate.
“Sir, could you tell me … where I can find the tavern called the One-Eyed Fly?”
The beggar stretched out his palm. The man hesitatingly took out a small coin, put it back, and took out a smaller one: “Here, send your blessings for my mother, she—”
The poor man suddenly caught the wrist of the young fellow in a viselike grip. A beefy fellow appeared behind the back of the unlucky passerby and wound a thick hemp cord tight on his pink neck. The man wheezed.
“Freeze! Guards!”
The young man who was more dead than alive struggled, and suddenly no one was holding him. The rope, which had been stuck around his throat, came loose, the darkness in front of his eyes cleared away, and the man found himself on all fours. Coughing, he removed the rope and realized he was alive, he had been saved.
Footsteps ran away down the alley. The man started to flee from this terrible place, and he almost bumped into a man wearing a gray hooded robe.
“Oh…” From the fire right into the flame; the man with fat cheeks startled back, without knowing where to go.
“Do not be afraid.” The robed man removed the hood, revealing a bright, honest face. “I must have frightened them off. Robbers are afraid of Lash and those who serve him.”
“Th-thanks,” answered the young man, stepping back. Both his knees and elbows were shaking.
“There is nothing to worry about,” the man spoke softly but persistently. “Let’s get away from here. How did you find yourself in this dangerous alley? Let’s go, let’s go…”
The young man did not intend to go anywhere with the man in the hooded robe. Yet somehow he decided to follow him. His feet started to move and, step by step, they walked along uninhabited side streets. Soon they were seated on the rear porch of a small bakery at a secluded table.
“Well, sir, I am a student. No, sir, I only recently began studies at the university. My father works as a public notary, he is an educated man, it goes without saying, and he decided that I should also study science. I was a good student.… Actually, I still am.”
The young man with fat cheeks was deceiving. His father was a modest clerk, and his sisters wore secondhand dresses one after another, because there was never enough money in their family. There was even less hope.
“Dean Luayan? Yes, he is a great mage, great scientist.… Yes, it goes without saying, we are close friends!”
The man in the robe shook his head sadly. The son of the clerk suddenly felt shriveled.
“I mean … I wanted to say … I attend the dean’s lectures every week.”
And I understand nothing, the young student thought.
The robed man put his white hands on the edge of the table—the tattoo on his wrist was visible—and he started to speak. Each of his words was as cold and sharp as an icy asterisk. Each word scolded his listener to the bones.
The fat-cheeked son of a clerk sat leaning on the tabletop. His blue eyes were rounded and resembled the peas on the dress of a fashion-model.
“The end is coming … very soon,” the man in the gray robe said.
“Why?” said the student. “The End of Time … Indeed this has no…” He met the glance of his interlocutor and finished his sentence in a whisper: “… scientific explanation.”
“No one in the world can understand all the sciences.” The man in the hooded robe sounded as if he regretted it. “Even Dean Luayan … by the way, don’t tell him anything about our conversation.”
“But why not?”
The man in the gray robe glared angrily. Soon the table began to tremble, shaking the beer in their mugs. The confusion on the young man’s face was replaced by panic.
“But you do not have to fear.” The man with the tattoo raised the corners of his lips. “If you do everything as it needs to be done, Lash will protect you. Everybody who has faith in us will be saved.”
“I will do everything which has to be done. What about others? Those the Order will not save?”
“The Order will save the ones who deserve it,” the man in the hooded robe responded dryly. “The others will cry bitterly until they die.”
* * *
Days passed by. From time to time, a messenger would come from the captain, always carrying the same question: How did Lieutenant Soll feel and was he able to take up his duties once more? The messenger would return, always carrying the same answer: The lieutenant was feeling better, but he could not yet resume his duties.
Karver also came to the house a few times. Each time he was forced to listen to the same excuse, delivered through a servant: The young gentleman, alas, was too weak and could not meet with his old friend.
Kavarren’s guards gradually became accustomed to having their carousals without Egert; at first they were all excited by the tale of his fateful love, but the subject soon withered away of its own accord. The serving girl Feta, who worked in the tavern by the town gates, sighed secretly and wiped her little eyes, but she was soon comforted, for even without the glorious Egert Soll, there were enough splendid gentlemen with epaulets on their shoulders to go around.
Finally, the messenger from the captain asked his eternal question slightly differently: Would Lieutenant Soll ever resume his duties? After hesitating, Egert answered in the affirmative.
He was to
ld to report to a unit that was engaged in mock battles the next day. These engagements, which were of necessity undertaken with blunt weapons, had always seemed ridiculous to Egert: How could one get a taste of danger while holding in one’s hand blunt, toothless steel? Now, just the thought of having to stand face-to-face with an armed opponent was enough to cast Egert into a fit of trembling.
In the morning, after a sleepless night, he sent a servant to the regiment with a message that the illness of Lieutenant Soll had returned, worse than before. The courier was just about to leave the house, but he never managed to pass the threshold, because Egert’s father, stern and full of indignation, ruthlessly intercepted his son’s message.
“My son!” Veins bulged on the temples of the elder Soll as he stood, glowering like a storm cloud, at the entrance to Egert’s room. “My son, the time has come for you to explain.” He took a breath. “I always saw in my son, above all else, a man. What is the meaning of your strange illness? Are you intentionally abandoning your regiment, service in which is the duty of all young men of noble birth? If this is not the case, and I truly hope it is not, then how do you explain your reluctance to appear at training?”
Egert looked at his father, no longer so young or so healthy; he saw the tendons that were drawn tight across his wrinkled neck, the deep creases between the imperiously drawn brows and the indignantly glittering eyes. His father continued, “Glorious Heaven! I’ve been watching you the last few weeks. And if you were not my son, if I hadn’t known you before, I swear to Khars, I’d think that the name of your affliction was cowardice!”
Egert jerked back, as though he had been slapped in the face. His entire existence cried out from grief and insult, but the word had been spoken, and deep in his heart Egert knew that what his father said was true.
“There has never been a coward in the Soll family,” said his father in a constrained whisper. “You must take yourself in hand, otherwise…”
The eldest Soll wanted to say something far too terrible, so terrible that his lips trembled with ire and the vein on his temple throbbed even more vigorously: he wanted to offer the prospect of a paternal curse and expulsion from the family home. However, he decided not to issue this threat and instead repeated meaningfully, “There has never been a coward in the Soll family!”
The Scar Page 8