The Scar

by Sergey Dyachenko

  After a bit of embarrassment on the part of the students, some of them decided to stand up and defend the honor of the university. Fox scurried about, handing out advice and trying to nudge the next knife thrower as close as possible to the target, at which the guards were rightly outraged and pushed him back to his former position, which was marked out by a chalk line. Unfortunately, the knives thrown by the students’ arms resolutely refused to stick into the wall: slamming into the target sideways, they disgracefully flopped to the floor accompanied by the laughs and jests of the guards. However, the taunts fell short of offense and a full-blown quarrel.

  The students lost three bottles of wine, a pile of silver coins, and Fox’s dress hat: being a gambler by nature, so little did he want to admit the defeat of his group that in the end he was throwing knives himself. Every toss was preceded by a hot-tempered bet and soon Fox was deprived of all his money and his well-made leather belt.

  Not the slightest bit disconcerted, Fox would probably have bet his father’s apothecary, had not his eyes at that very moment fallen upon the languid form of Egert, who was blissfully enjoying the general merriment and sitting complacently on the edge of a bench.

  “Hey, Egert!” Instead of his belt, Fox had tied up his trousers with a cord. “Is there some reason you aren’t playing for your own people? Perhaps you’d like to give it a toss, or is their money too good for you?”

  Smiling self-consciously, Egert stood up. At that moment the despondent students, whose defeat was apparently shattering and complete, really did seem to be his own people, almost his family; furthermore, he suddenly begrudged the loss of Gaetan’s belt.

  The broad-shouldered guard with the cord in his hair smirked, handing Egert a dagger. Egert measured the distance to the target with his eyes, squinting, and at that moment it was as if he switched on a long-forgotten but still faultless ability.

  His hand weighed the dagger, determining its center of gravity; the blade came alive, twisting in Egert’s palm like a small, nimble animal. The tip flashed in a searing arc and with a crunch embedded itself in the very center of the painted apple.

  The tavern hushed from astonishment; a stunned cook peered out of the kitchen.

  Egert smiled as if apologizing; the guards exchanged wondering glances, as if they did not believe their eyes and had to check if their companions had seen the same thing: maybe they’d all gotten really drunk? The students were simply frozen, their faces stretched long in shock; Fox broke through the general bewilderment.

  “But how did you do that?” he asked in a deliberately drunken voice.

  The broad-shouldered guard stepped forward resolutely, shaking a purse. “I’ll put up the money. Best of five, what do you say?”

  Egert again smiled guiltily.

  After that, everything happened quickly. In a silence that was broken only by the subdued gasps of the audience and the dull thuds of blades hitting wood, Egert won back Fox’s belt and hat, all the money lost by the students, and even the money that the broad-shouldered youth had won off his comrades. Egert’s eyes and hands acted almost independently, executing a long-familiar and pleasant task; daggers danced in Egert’s hands, spun round into a glinting fans, flew up into the air and then fell into his palm as if they were glued there. He threw them almost without looking, like clockwork, and they all rushed toward the exact same point: soon a hole, studded with wooden splinters, appeared in the center of the lopsided apple.

  The broad-shouldered guard with the cord wound in his hair turned respectfully to Egert. “I swear to Khars, this lad has not spent his whole life wiping books on his trousers, oh no!”

  Finally, Egert’s excitement ran dry: unintentionally glancing at the dagger in his hand, he suddenly saw it as a murder weapon and winced at the thought of lacerated flesh. However, no one noticed his distress, because the company of students had long ago recovered from their shock and exchanged it for exuberant high spirits.

  They surrounded Egert, shaking his hand and patting him on the back; one by one the guards approached and gravely attested to their heartfelt esteem. To drink away their newly earned money, the triumphant students headed off to the One-Eyed Fly. A pair of girls trailed along after them, apparently lured by the beauty and prowess of the “fair-haired Egert.”

  They continued to celebrate Egert’s skill almost until midnight. They stopped by the students’ pub, where Egert finally met Fox’s longtime girlfriend: a good-looking, perpetually laughing woman by the name of Farri. She had missed her sweetheart over the summer, and so at first she pouted her lips aggrievedly, then she threw her arms around Gaetan’s neck, and then she proceeded to flirt recklessly with one and all, trying to call forth Fox’s jealousy. The situation ended when, begging leave of Egert and the whole company, Fox expertly scooped Farri up under his arm and hauled her away. From that moment on, Egert lost interest in the party; scarcely able to escape from the two girls who were besieging him, he wormed his way out onto the dark street. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he ran into a man in a spacious robe. The face of the robed man was hidden by a hood.

  “Good evening, Egert,” said a voice out of the darkness.

  The voice was affable: without a doubt, it belonged to Fagirra. Egert stepped back. In the months that had passed since his visit to the Tower, Egert had managed to convince himself that the brotherhood had lost all interest in him and no longer wanted him in their ranks. The appearance of Fagirra was like thunder in a clear sky.

  “Are you surprised to see me, Egert?” Fagirra smiled under his hood. “I’m happy to inform you that you’ve successfully endured the first trial, the trial of secrecy. We should talk. Wouldn’t it be better if we moved away from that noisy tavern?”

  Laughter and shouts alternating with drunken songs were wafting from the One-Eyed Fly. At that moment the raucous sounds of the students’ revelry seemed dear to Egert, like a lullaby remembered from childhood.

  “Yes,” he muttered indistinctly, “of course.”

  Taking Egert by the hand, Fagirra dragged him into an alley. Egert was afraid that they would find a secret passageway that led into the Tower of Lash.

  Fagirra stopped. His white teeth flashed in the dark. “Egert, I’m glad to see that you are in good health. We have little time. Soon, by the will of Lash, we will become comrades-in-arms, brothers, but in the meantime you must know that the world is changing, that the world has already changed. People have drifted too far away from Lash: woe unto them. Have you not noticed, Egert? Fools, all fools. The city magistrate heeds the advice of the Magister, but the magistrate is ill and who knows how his successor will conduct himself? Even now voices can be heard that contravene the will of Lash. Woe unto them, Egert, woe unto them all!”

  Egert listened, not understanding or even trying to understand, only feverishly wondering what Fagirra would demand of him.

  “Great ordeals are approaching, ordeals that all living things must endure, but what those ordeals are, you will learn only once you have passed through the rites of initiation. You must hurry, Egert. You must find the time to cleave to Lash before that which must happen, happens. You will meet it with us, and you will find salvation, whereas others will cry out in horror.”

  The acolyte talked ever more rapidly and ardently, his eyes glinting in the darkness. With each word, Egert became more terrified, as if he suddenly saw wings of shadow stretched out over his ordinary, familiar life.

  “Soon, Egert. But there is still time. You must pass through the second trial. By the will of Lash it will be the last, and then the Tower will shelter you, consecrated against that … against what will happen here, below the sun. Are you ready to listen?”

  Egert’s tongue answered of its own accord. “Yes.”

  Fagirra brought his cowl close to Egert’s face. “Then listen. These are the conditions of the final trial: First, keep silent as before; second, and this is the most important, Egert, you must watch and listen. It is for this that you have been given eyes
and ears, Egert: to watch and listen. The Magister himself will receive your reports. In the university you will encounter both those who are our friends and those who are our enemies. We must determine who is who. The Magister is especially interested in the venerable dean and his lovely young daughter. Watch and listen. You are no doubt privy to the plans of the dean concerning the book he is writing, yes?”

  Egert stood there, feeling as though he had been doused in boiling water. He immediately forgot his fear of the impending ordeals. His cheeks and ears were burning; luckily, Fagirra could not see this in the darkness. Heaven, the former Soll, that long-forgotten Kavarrenian bully: he would put an end to such a conversation with one good punch to the face! But the former Soll was dead, and this latter-day Egert, marked by the scar, only whispered in a wavering voice, “Unfortunately, you exaggerate my acquaintance with Dean Luayan. I don’t know anything about his plans.”

  Fagirra amiably placed his hand on Egert’s shoulder. “Egert, this trial, it is not an easy one. I won’t lie. It is possible that finding out about this will be difficult, but after all, it is possible, Egert, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” whispered Egert. “I really … I’m not sure.”

  “Egert,” drawled Fagirra reproachfully, “my friend. You’ve already taken the first step: You were present at the secret ceremony. You were shown great trust, weren’t you? Do you really think it is unnecessary to justify that trust? Right now you find yourself under the influence of a momentary hesitation, but the penalty for such hesitation may be too onerous: it may be nothing short of inhuman. Don’t let cowardice get the better of you. It will only be worse. Believe me, I am telling you this as your future brother. Would it be easier for you to submit reports directly to the Magister or to me?”

  Egert could hardly keep himself from shaking violently. Fagirra’s hands, as before, were resting on his shoulders: the acolyte would be able to feel it quite well. “To you,” whispered Egert, wishing only to finish all this as soon as possible.

  Fagirra was silent for a moment, and then he said softly, “Splendid. I will find you. Your business is to watch and listen. And to question, to question as inquisitively as possible but without intrusiveness: the dean is quite clever.”

  Fagirra started to walk away, but then he suddenly turned around again.

  “You needn’t feel so ill about all this, Egert. You’ll understand soon. You’ve been offered a helping hand; you’ve been granted a unique chance. You will realize this later, but for now you just need to believe. All right?”

  Egert could not find the strength to answer.

  * * *

  The anecdote about the daggers went the rounds of the university, and even completely unfamiliar students walked up to Egert in the corridors so that they could shake hands with him and ask him something insignificant. The academic year began, and Egert did not miss a single lecture, even though his soul was heavy.

  After his encounter with Fagirra he vowed to himself that he would no longer show his face in town, but who knew whether or not even the university walls could protect from the Order of Lash? Egert knew full well that base fear would betray him at the very first opportunity, and his interrogator, whoever he might be, would be able to extract from him anything he desired to hear. The Order of Lash either knew or had guessed at his cowardice, and that meant that he was a prisoner of the Order, a spy and an inquisitor, and no pride or honor would be able to save Egert when his legs began to shake from fear and his parched tongue clove to the back of his throat, unable to prevent him from pronouncing words of betrayal.

  The lengthy howl sounding from the Tower now rendered him horror-stricken.

  One day, plucking up his courage, he took himself to the dean’s study to confess everything, but on the way to the study Fagirra’s face rose up before his eyes and his fitful voice whispered in his ears, warning of impending disasters. He had scarcely crossed the threshold when he blurted out an unintelligible question: What will happen … or will nothing happen … in the near future?

  The dean showed surprise, but with touching gravity he supposed that in the near future something surely would happen, and in the recent past something, alas, had already happened. Egert panicked, asked the dean’s pardon, and fled, leaving the dean somewhat bewildered.

  Sometimes Egert calmed himself with the thought that Fagirra and the hoary Magister seemed like men who were worthy of trust. Possibly he really did know too little; possibly the mission that had been entrusted to him was not a betrayal, but really a service to the university. After all, Fagirra had said, “You will realize this later, but for now you just need to believe. All right?”

  All right, whispered Egert to himself, and he felt better; he even began to consider in earnest how he could best accomplish the task that had been imposed on him, but then the abrupt realization of his own baseness drove him to despair. Cringing on the windowsill, he would not answer Fox’s worried questions or look into those honest honey-colored eyes.

  Fox now regarded Egert with greater respect, not only for Egert’s rare ability in tossing knives, but also for the books he was reading, Anatomy and The Philosophy, which had been borrowed, according to Egert, from the dean himself. Gaetan trained himself to leave Egert in peace when he saw that his roommate desired solitude, but one evening, having blown out the candle, Fox ventured to ask his odd roommate a question.

  “Listen, Egert. Who are you, actually?”

  Egert, who had been drowsily recollecting his home and his parents, woke up fully. “What are you talking about?”

  Fox’s bed creaked. “Well … You’re all quiet and shy, only I think I need to hide any knives from you or else who knows what might happen.”

  “Have no fear,” Egert sneered bitterly.

  Fox continued sullenly, “Of course. But if I had such a handsome face as you do, all the girls in the city would be spoiled. They run after you like they’re on a leash, but you never so much as glance at them. You know you could, with them, I mean … Never mind.”

  Egert sneered again.

  Fox came up with a new question. “Who was it that slashed your face?”

  Egert sighed. He asked in a whisper, “Listen, the Day of Jubilation, is that soon?”

  Fox wondered at this question in the darkness. After a pause, he answered, “Another month. Why?”

  * * *

  A month. A month remained until the designated time. Egert firmly believed that he would not become a scoundrel and informer if he could just hold out until the meeting with the Wanderer. Now he was a slave to the curse, but the real, free Egert would not be horrified either by direct threats or by promises of impending doom. The Order of Lash would lose all power over him, and it would be so pleasant to say to Fagirra’s face: Get lost, look for your spies elsewhere! And Karver. And returning to Kavarren, seeing his father. And then—Egert was almost decided on this—then he would come back to the university and ask the dean to admit him … possibly … But that would be later. First, the Wanderer, and the meeting that would take place in a month.

  Egert simply barred from his mind the thought of what would happen if the meeting did not take place or if the Wanderer refused to deliver him from the curse.

  * * *

  For several nights in a row, Toria dreamed unusually vivid, wondrous dreams.

  Once she dreamed that she was standing on the deck of a galleon. She had often seen such ships in engravings but never once in real life. All around lay the clean, blue surface of the sea, the spherical vault of the sky curved over her head, her father stood next to her, and in his hand, for some reason, was a birdcage. A small bird, smaller than a sparrow, hovered in the cage. Toria’s soul felt strangely light and she laughed in her sleep. But a mass of clouds, black as an ashtray, was gathering on the distant horizon, and the captain, for there was a captain on the ship, said with a grin, “There will be a storm, but we need not fear it.”

  And Toria was not afraid. Nevertheless, the clouds drew
near far faster than they should, and the captain sensed that something was wrong only when it was too late: in the sky over the ship hung an owl of vast proportions, and it was simultaneously a bird and a cloud, only such a cloud as has never existed. Its eyes, two round saucers, glowed with a white, turbulent fire, and its wings, when extended, shut out the sky. The captain and the crew cried out in horror, and then Toria’s father, Dean Luayan, flung open the door of the birdcage he held in his hand.

  The bird, light, smaller than a sparrow, flitted free from the cage; it soared up impetuously and began to grow and grow and turn black and roll around within the cloud. When it equaled the owl hovering in the sky, there was a battle not for life, but for death—only, who won this battle, Toria was not allowed to learn, for she awoke.

  Speculating on what it might mean, Toria walked into the city: the evening before, her father had asked her to stop by the apothecary. Returning, she came upon two girls who were standing by the front entrance, wearing compelling bonnets adorned with rose-red and jade-green flowers. The girls, blushing and nudging each other, turned to her with a question: Does there live here … that is, study here … a very tall boy, blond, with a scar?

  Toria was taken aback. The girls, becoming more agitated, explained: They met a little while ago at a certain place and agreed to meet again but, although the students came into the city fairly often—This boy, he’s so blond. Do you know him?—he hasn’t shown his face in town for a few weeks now.… Perhaps he’s ill?

  At first Toria wanted to laugh, then she changed her mind and decided to be livid; then, recollecting herself, she wondered why she should have such a reaction. What business did she have with Soll’s intimate affections?