His muscles seized up. Desperately attempting to suppress his terror, he tried to unclench his blue fingers, but they clawed at the masonry with a death grip. If only there were someone there who could crack a whip at his hands! But Egert had no one to help him, and the stone in his shirt pressed against the wall of the well; it prevented him from reaching out to his fingers with his teeth and biting them to force them to unclench. Just a bit more strength, just a bit …
But then his terror of death finally tore through the barrier he had momentarily erected in his mind.
Egert clung to the wall of the well with his entire body—his elbows, the soles of his feet, his knees—unable to recall or command himself. He surged upward, gasping for air, willing himself to tear out of his own skin and flee, flee, save himself! Stifled by fear, he tumbled out of the well onto the ground. The cobblestone skidded out of his shirt and Egert, still frantic, crawled away, trembling and weeping.
A guard glanced out of the striped kiosk by the gate and, not seeing anyone or anything, calmly ducked back inside. “Rest in peace, honest townsfolk,” resounded from the watch.
Leaning against a lamppost, Egert finally managed to pull himself together. Only now did he acknowledge the profundity of the trap he was captured in.
He had no mastery over himself. Terror made his life unbearable and his death unattainable. He could not escape. All his mortal years, all his long life until old age he would be afraid, afraid, and he would grovel and betray himself, and he would suffer shame and hate himself, and he would rot alive until he lost his mind.
“No!” Egert’s soul screamed. “No.”
His shirt had already lost all its buttons. Egert cradled the cobblestone to his chest like a mother holding her beloved child, dashed toward the well, and leapt for the edge.
He stopped short with a fraction of a second to spare. Catching a glimpse of the dark water below, the fear of death broke his will as easily as a child breaks a match. It allowed him to come to his senses only when he was already on the ground, shaking and squirming like a newborn rat.
He wept and gnawed at his fingers. He called out to the heavens for help, but the heavens remained dark, as is sometimes the case at night. He wanted to die: he tried to force his heart to stop by strength of will, but his heart paid him no heed and beat as before, albeit irregularly and painfully.
Then he felt a gaze on him.
Never before had he so keenly, so markedly felt his skin crawl with another’s gaze; he cowered, trying not to move, but the gaze, despite his hope, did not disappear. The gaze slid over his shoulders like a heavy palm. Egert clenched his teeth and slowly raised his head.
About five steps away from him stood a gray-haired man doused in the glow of the streetlamp. His face was elderly, beardless, and covered in a network of wrinkles; it seemed impenetrable, like a mask. The man stood motionless and examined Egert with an inscrutable expression in his tranquil, narrowed eyes.
Egert caught his breath: it was instantly clear to him that this stranger would not insult him or beat him, but at the same time in the depths of his soul rumbled a completely different anxiety, not at all like his usual terror. He wanted this witness of his shame and desperation to disappear as quickly as possible into the night. Trying to convey the fact that the presence of this other man was unwelcome, Egert turned his back on him.
Another minute passed. The intent gaze did not leave Egert in peace for a second.
Egert felt tormented, like he was on a burning stove. Finally, his patience dried up and he decided to speak. “I…”
He fell silent, unable to find the words. The strange man apparently had no thought to help him get the words out.
“You…” Egert spoke again, and in that moment he had an idea, a simple and brilliant idea. “You,” he said more firmly. “You might be able to help me.”
The stranger blinked. He politely asked, “Help?”
Getting up with great difficulty, Egert walked over to the well and once again took the cobblestone in his hand. “You could push me. Just a little push. There. Into the water.”
The nighttime passerby did not answer, so Egert added quickly, “This is happening, you know? I really need to—I really need you to help me, please.”
The stranger transferred his intent gaze from the cobblestone to Egert’s face, then to the well, and once again to Egert.
“I really need help,” pleaded Egert. “It’s necessary. I can’t do anything else. But I can’t do it myself. Please.”
“I really don’t think I can help you,” uttered the stranger slowly.
Hope, which had flared up in Egert’s soul, extinguished. “Then…,” he said quietly. “Then please leave. I have to try again.”
The stranger shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think that you’ll succeed in this, Egert.”
Egert dropped the cobblestone. Scarcely able to swallow his sticky saliva, he stared at the stranger in horror.
“You are indeed Egert Soll; I’m not mistaken, am I?” asked the strange man as if nothing was the matter.
Egert could have sworn that he had never met this man before.
As if reading his mind, the stranger smiled briefly. “My name is Luayan. I am Dean Luayan from the university.”
Egert was silent; before his eyes flashed an image of the imposing building and the girl in a high window.
The dean, meanwhile, leisurely walked over to the well and settled himself on its edge as informally as a child. “Well then, let’s have a talk, Egert.”
“How do you know my name?” Egert forced the words out. In the light of the streetlamp the white teeth of the dean flashed; he smiled and shook his head, as if shocked at the naïveté of the question. And then, shivering at his sudden guess, Egert asked through numbed lips, “Are you a wizard?”
“I am a mage,” corrected the dean, “a mage and a teacher. And you, Egert, who are you?”
Without blinking, Egert stared at the tranquil, inscrutable face. He had come to this city to meet this mage, and he had hoped for and feared this meeting. But the appearance of Toria, high up in that window, had muddled and changed everything. He had surrendered hope; he had forgotten all about it, and now here he was, speechless, standing in front of a graying man in dark, strangely cut clothes, standing in front of the witness, whether intentional or accidental, of his pitiful attempts at suicide, and his tongue was stuck on the roof of his mouth: How could he possibly find an answer to the dean’s remorseless question?
The dean sighed. “Well, Egert? I know something about who you were. But now?”
“Now.” Egert could not hear himself and so began anew. “Now I want to die.”
The dean smiled somewhat scornfully, it seemed to Egert. “There is no way, Egert. The man who marked you with that scar does not leave loopholes.”
Egert’s shaking hand touched the scar on his cheek.
The dean gently rose up: he was only a hairsbreadth shorter than Egert, who was quite tall. “Do you know what that scar signifies, Egert?”
He came close, so close in fact that Egert recoiled; the dean screwed up his face peevishly.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Firm fingers carefully grasped Egert by his chin and turned his head so that his scarred cheek was exposed to the light from the streetlamp. The silence lasted for a few lingering seconds; finally the dean let go of Egert’s chin, sighed as if preoccupied, returned to the well, and once again sat down on the stonework.
Egert stood there, more dead than alive. His interlocutor rubbed his temples, looked to the side, and said, “A curse has been laid upon you, Egert, a serious, frightful curse. The scar is but the imprint of it, the mark, the symbol. Only one man can leave such a reminder of himself, but as I know very well, he very rarely condescends to interfere in the business of others. You must have seriously annoyed him, eh, Egert?”
“Who?” whispered Egert, not understanding even half of what the dean had just said.
The dean sighed again: wearily, patiently. “Do you remember the man who wounded you?”
Egert stood, staring at the ground; finally he shivered and raised his head. “A curse?”
The dean twitched the corner of his mouth. “You really didn’t guess?”
Egert remembered the old hermit and the village wise woman, who had been so horrified when she examined Egert’s scar more closely.
“I guessed,” he murmured, lowering his eyes yet again.
The lamplight flickered in a gust of wind.
“I guessed,” repeated Egert. “He was old, or so he seemed. He fought like … Now I understand. Was he a wizard? I mean, was he also a mage?”
“Just how did you annoy him, Egert?” asked the dean, knitting his brows together.
Egert soundlessly moved his lips: that final duel, that fight with the grizzled boarder of the Noble Sword flashed before his eyes.
“No,” he said finally. “I—there’s no way. I didn’t want to duel, he himself…”
The dean leaned forward. “Understand this, Egert: This man does not bother himself with trifles. You did something that, in his opinion, was worthy of a grave punishment. I am now asking you, what was it?”
Egert could not speak. Memories invaded him all at once, without distinction, descending upon him, deafening him with the ring of steel, the laugh of Karver, the din of the crowd, the voice of Toria screaming “Dinar!”
The grizzled stranger had been there. Oh yes, he had been there, and as he was leaving he had graced Egert with a long look.
Later, at the tavern by the gates, what was it that strange man said? Egert broke out into sweat; he remembered the words of the stranger quite distinctly, as if they had just been spoken: I drink to Lieutenant Soll, the embodiment of cowardice, hiding behind a mask of valor.
“Who is he?” Egert asked desolately. The dean remained silent; Egert raised his head and understood that he was waiting for an answer to the question he had already asked twice.
“I killed a man, in a duel,” said Egert with just as much desolation in his voice. “The duel was fought according to the rules.”
“Is that all?” asked the dean dryly.
Egert winced painfully. “It was all so haphazard and stupid. That lad, he didn’t even carry a sword. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want it to happen that way.”
He glanced desperately at the dean’s eyes and saw that the flecks of light from the streetlamp on his severe face had faded. The black sky over the square had become gray, and the even silhouettes of the houses were beginning to appear from the receding shadows.
“So you paid the price,” said the dean just as dryly, “for your thoughtless savagery. The man who put that curse on you has doomed you to eternal cowardice. It is possible that he wasn’t even thinking about punishment but simply decided to neutralize you, to protect those who aren’t like you, those who live differently, who cannot or will not arm themselves.”
Dawn broke out over the city. The dean stood up, this time heavily, as if Egert’s tale had fatigued him beyond measure.
“Dean Luayan!” exclaimed Egert, shrouded in despair at the thought that the dean might simply turn and walk away. “Dean Luayan, you are indeed an archmage. I—I have been through so much. I’ve been seeking. I wanted to seek help from you. I beg you; tell me what I must do. I swear I’ll do anything, just please take this, this scar from me!”
The streetlamp sputtered and went out. The sleepy guard emerged from the striped kiosk by the gates and glanced with amusement at the tramp who was conversing with a gentleman of such decorous appearance in the middle of the square. Shutters swung open here and there with crashes, the dairywoman cried out resonantly, and the square suddenly came to life, filling up with various people yawning tiredly while they waited: soon the gates would open.
The dean shook his head in defeat. “Egert, you just don’t understand; you don’t understand who it is fate has brought you into contact with. A curse that is laid upon a person by the Wanderer can only be removed by the Wanderer.”
The lock of the gates solemnly slithered down, and people started surging forward. The steel chain rattled in the rings; the guard—a new one had only just arrived to relieve the old—set about making himself comfortable. The gates emitted a majestic groan and smoothly, almost gracefully, proceeded to open.
“Then what should I do now?” asked Egert in a whisper. “Should I search for him, this Wanderer? Who is he? Where can I find him?”
The rooftops were bathed in sunlight. Yellow and white specks of light danced on tin and copper weathervanes.
“Who he is, no one really knows,” said the dean, almost smiling. “As for looking for him: What makes you so sure that he would even talk to you?”
Egert’s head jerked up. “But, that’s just, just … He’s treated me so badly! What he did to me, and he wouldn’t even talk to me?” Egert shook, he was almost in a rage. “All because of a student? Yes, I killed him! But it was a duel, and with the Wanderer, there was also a duel: he should have killed me! I stood before him defenseless. Death for death. But what he did is worse than death and now I envy the student! He died with a sword in his hand, respecting himself. He had a future and he was loved.”
Egert stopped short. It seemed to him that a shadow had flitted across the dean’s face. Cold sparks blazed in the depths of his narrow eyes, and under his glare Egert’s short burst of anger faded away, just as unexpectedly as it had flared up.
“I must find the Wanderer,” said Egert vaguely. “I’ll take myself away, find him or … or, perhaps, I’ll die along the way.”
Hope rang out in these final words, but the dean shook his head with a smile. “‘Anything is possible,’ said the fish to the frying pan.”
Then he turned and started walking away. Egert stared helplessly at his back.
A new day was dawning; by the gates, a trumpet piped up thinly. The city broke open its jaws, forged from steel, so that the dust of the road could sink into the paved streets, so that any family man could set out for the far distances.
The departing dean suddenly stopped. Turning his face over his shoulder, he rubbed his temple as if he could not find the right words. He smiled at his own discomfort. Egert watched him with wide-open eyes.
The dean returned unhurriedly, as if in a reverie. “In any event, it is entirely unnecessary to search for the Wanderer.” He coughed and staggered a bit, and then said slowly, as if weighing each word, “Every year, on the eve of the Day of Jubilation, he appears in the city.”
Egert was stunned. He licked his dry lips and asked in a whisper, “And I will meet him?”
“Not necessarily.” The dean smiled. “But it is possible.”
Egert felt his heart pounding ferociously. “And the Day of Jubilation, when is that?”
“In the autumn.”
Egert felt his heart pound one more time and then freeze. “That’s so long,” he whispered, nearly crying. “So long.”
The dean again rubbed his temple pensively and smiled with just the corner of his mouth. Then, as if he had reached a decision, he took Egert by the elbow. “How about this, Egert: I’ll give you a place as an auditor at the university, but you’ll get room and board like a full-time student. Half a year remains until this possible meeting with your friend, the Wanderer. It would be good for you to spend this time sensibly so that, should he, in the end, indeed deign to give you an audience … I’m not promising you anything; I simply want to help you. Do you understand?”
Egert did not say anything. The dean’s offer seemed to come out of nowhere, and it stunned him a bit. The image of a pale woman in a window drifted through the depths of his consciousness.
“And of course,” added the dean, seeing his perplexity, “of course, no one and nothing at the university will harm you. Do you hear me, Egert?”
Wagons were driving through the open gates; peasants from the surrounding villages were swinging their heads back and forth, struggling through
the mass of impudent street urchins, whose eyes unerringly saw and whose hands unerringly grasped anything from the carts that lay in temptation’s way. Egert recalled yesterday’s little adventure with these same urchins and scowled.
“What are you pondering for so long?” The dean seemed mildly surprised that his offer had not been snatched up immediately.
“Huh?” Egert jumped, caught in his thoughts. “Well, really, I … But didn’t I say? I agree.”
5
Two beds with high backs and an old table beneath the little window were all that would fit in the tiny, damp room with the narrow arched ceiling. The small window looked out onto the interior courtyard of the university. Right now it was empty except for the indefatigable old woman who came to clean twice a week; she was pacing back and forth with a duster and a broom.
Egert climbed down from the windowsill and returned to his bed. At the moment, he had more than enough time to lie on his back, stare at the gray arches of the ceiling, and think.
Spring would soon be over, summer would pass by, and then fall would set in. Yet again, Egert counted the remaining months on his fingers. The Day of Jubilation would arrive and a man would come to the city; a man with perfectly clear eyes lacking eyelashes, with fidgety nostrils on his long nose, with a biting sword in his scabbard; a man invested with an unknown but entirely relentless power.
Egert sighed and turned his face to the wall. A small spider was running across the dark stone, throwing its thin, articulated legs up high.
The university was full of students from all walks of life: the poorer among them had their room and board in this wing. The young men who were a bit richer—and there were many of them—rented rooms in the city. Egert avoided both rich and poor. He had written to his father a few days after his installation in the university; without explaining anything, Egert had informed his father that he was alive and well, and had asked for money to be sent.
The Scar Page 14