The Scar

by Sergey Dyachenko

  “But it was given to you,” objected Legiar.

  They both fell silent.

  Luayan frowned as he gazed steadily, with barely perceptible reproach, right into Legiar’s undamaged eye. “I remained Orlan’s student. I think he would have understood.”

  The one-eyed man sneered. “‘He would have understood.…’ From that I take it that you think I don’t understand?”

  It became quiet again. Legiar perused the densely packed shelves, studying the titles with interest. Luayan did not rush him; he waited patiently for the continuation of their conversation.

  “You have done well.” Legiar turned back, blowing book dust from his fingers. “You have done well in your studies. But I have come to you, not as a scholar, not as a dean, and not even as a mage: I have come to you as the student of Orlan.”

  Luayan gazed, without breaking away, at the intent, narrow pupil that was fixed on him. His guest’s dead eye was like a round piece of ice.

  “As the student of Orlan, look.” On Legiar’s palm lay a gold disk with elaborate indentations in the center; a gold chain hung down between his fingers, and a bright yellow arc of light ran across the darkened ceiling.

  “This is the Amulet of the Prophet,” Legiar resumed hollowly. “The strength of the Amulet is well known, but no one knows all its properties. Ever since its master, the Prophet Orwin, perished, it has been dormant. It must now search for a new master, a new prophet. The person who puts it on gains the ability to look into the future, but this can happen only if the medallion itself has chosen him. The medallion will simply kill the vainglorious or foolish man who tries to make use of it without the right to do so: gold knows no mercy. I cannot keep it with me; I am not its master. I cannot deliver it into the hands of any of the archmages, for then doubt, suspicion, and envy would gnaw at me until finally … The medallion does not belong in the hands of anyone who is not a mage, however, so what am I to do?”

  Legiar narrowed his eyes: the sighted eye collapsed into a slit, but the dead one acquired a strange, almost crafty expression.

  “I have brought the medallion to you, Luayan. You are the student of Orlan. Vanity and pride were alien to him. He was wise, far wiser than all who live today. He was only your mentor for a short while, but he is in you; he is, I see it. I would have brought the medallion to him, but he is dead, so you must take it. Treasure and preserve it.”

  Luayan took the gold disk in the palm of his hand. The medallion seemed warm, like a living creature. “What should I do with it?”

  Legiar smiled slightly. “Nothing. Hide it. Keep it safe. It selects its own master; don’t try to assist it. Glance at it every once in a while to see whether there is any rust on it. Yes, I know, it is gold, not iron. Rust on the Amulet augurs peril for the living world: thus did the First Prophet proclaim, and as Heaven has witnessed, the elder was right.” The corner of Legiar’s long mouth mournfully crooked down.

  As he was leaving, he turned on the threshold.

  “You see, I am old.… Many of us are now old and those who should have taken our places … did not. You are happy in your university. And somewhere yet another frustrated hope roams the earth: the former Doorkeeper; even I don’t know who or where he is now. Guard the medallion … and farewell.”

  He left, and Luayan never saw him again, but his life’s work sprang from this memorable meeting: a history of the deeds of the archmages.

  The medallion lay comfortably in his hand. The dean raised it to his eyes, inspecting it as closely as he could: there was no rust. Not a dot, not a speck. However, the presentiment of misfortune ripened and matured like an apple, like an abscess.

  * * *

  Half a week had passed by after the Tower’s declaration of the End of Time. Several times a day the Tower of Lash emitted its howl, which chilled the blood coursing through the veins of the city’s inhabitants; thick smoke reluctantly drifted up into the sky from the grilled windows of the Tower, but not a single robed man appeared on the streets of the city. The townspeople were tormented with anxiety.

  The consumption of spirits increased tenfold in the city: the idea that intoxication expels unwelcome thoughts and blunts fear was, apparently, well known to men other than Egert Soll. Wives waited for their husbands in anxiety and alarm, and when their husbands returned home on all fours or creeping on their bellies, their first, slurred words were assurances that time would not end. The neighborhoods of craftsmen and merchants gradually fell under the sway of too much drink, while in the aristocratic areas of the city decorum reigned for the time being. Even there, however, one might encounter a tipsy lackey or a coachman who had gotten so drunk that he toppled from his perch. The high windows of the wealthy houses were thickly curtained, so who knows what really went on behind the cover of those curtains, so dense that they did not even let air through. Many of the inhabitants who had relatives in the villages and outskirts considered it best to pay them a long visit; all day carts and wagons loaded with household goods wheeled out of the city gates one after another.

  The taverns flourished: the proprietors of alehouses and pubs passed off swill that had long been stagnating in barrels as first-class wine. But even though people drank nervously in the majority of such establishments, only wishing to drown out their fear, in the student tavern, the One-Eyed Fly, genuine and unconstrained merrymaking prevailed.

  Fox was a colossal success: ten times a night he imitated first the hooded acolytes, then the Magister, then the dwarf with the trumpet; in Fox’s performance, the uncanny, prolonged sound that was emitted by this instrument was transformed into a noise of ridiculous lewdness. The students applauded, sprawled out on the benches. Only Egert did not take part in the general merriment.

  Hunching, as usual, in a corner, barely able to squeeze his long legs underneath the bench, Egert scratched at the tabletop with the tip of a blunt knife. His lips moved soundlessly, repeating the word “yes” over and over, and the glass of wine that stood in front of him on the table remained almost untouched.

  When the path has reached its bitter end. When that which is foremost in your soul becomes last. What, after all, was foremost in his soul? Could it be his perpetual terror? Then in order to dispose of the curse, he must first dispose of his fear, but this was a closed circle: so as not to be afraid, he just had to cease being afraid. But if there were something that stood before all else in his soul, and it was not fear, then what was it?

  Egert sighed. He was going around in circles like a horse harnessed to a thresher; the key to his soul was either cowardice or his desire to get rid of it: no third option entered his head.

  The long table teetered. Someone sat down next to him. Egert did not raise his head right away; it was probably one of his fellow students who had stepped away from the noisy crowd so that he could drink his wine or have a bite to eat in relative peace. Meanwhile, Fox renewed his prancing jokes. Laughter filled the tavern, but Egert distinguished a quiet snicker coming from the man next to him.

  He turned his face and looked at his neighbor. At first glance this strong young man seemed completely unfamiliar to him, but already in the next second Egert, chilled, recognized Fagirra.

  Fagirra was sitting in the student tavern. Never in all the times Egert had been there had a single one of the robed men come in. Fagirra was dressed modestly and simply, similarly to any of Egert’s comrades. Freed from the ominous hood, he seemed even younger than his years, perhaps even the same age as Egert. No one was paying Fagirra any special attention. Resembling the others, he casually took a sip of something from a large tankard and amiably glanced at the stupefied Egert. Egert could just see his tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve; that tattoo marked him as a professional blade master.

  Egert could think of nothing better to do than to pick up his own glass and also take a sip. Fagirra smiled. “Good health, my friend. On the eve of great trials, I am especially pleased to see you in such good health.”

  Egert murmured an inaudible greeti
ng. Fox, who had gathered the entire company of students around the platform, was being far too successful in his mockery: the jokes, each more wicked than the last, were all aimed at the Order of Lash. The students were roaring with laughter.

  Fagirra listened attentively, and the somewhat absentminded, benevolent expression disappeared from his face: thus does an elderly teacher attend to the incoherent answer of an indolent student, already counting the number of whippings that he will administer to the schoolboy. Egert was horrified.

  “I see that all those hours spent studying do not add to the youths’ wisdom,” breathed Fagirra. “Meanwhile, the time is nigh.”

  “Nigh?” The word burst out of Egert, and he panicked immediately. “I mean to say … when…”

  Once again, Fagirra smiled softly. “We know when. But this knowledge is intended for those who are with us. Are you with us, Egert?”

  He felt a sudden, inexpressible desire to say yes. Not just to appease Fagirra, though he did desire that as well, but because a wild thought flashed through his head. What if this answer proves to be the first in a series of five? What if the Wanderer’s puzzle was connected with the Order of Lash?

  “Well, Egert?” Fagirra sighed reproachfully. “Are you hesitating? On the eve of the End of Time, are you wavering?”

  Fox had wrapped himself up in a tablecloth. He had fashioned a hood from its edge and was now pacing about the tavern, dismally nodding his head and occasionally mournfully raising his eyes to the soot-stained ceiling. Egert remained silent.

  Fagirra shrugged his shoulders as if to say “what a pity.” With a blindingly quick movement, imperceptible to any onlookers, he placed his hand against Egert’s ribs. “Keep your seat, Egert. Hold still, for Heaven’s sake. Be calm.”

  Egert tilted his eyes to the side. A slender, elegant stiletto with a tiny, dark drop of some unknown substance glistening on its very tip pressed gently into his side.

  Egert could not remember the last time he had been seized by such utter, instinctual terror. The only reason he did not leap up with a howl was that his legs and arms quickly refused to serve him.

  “This is not an instantaneous death,” said Fagirra in the same soft, calming tone. “It is lingering, Egert, lingering and hmm … unpleasant, yes? A single prick is sufficient, and the wound will not be large. Do I make myself clear?”

  Egert sat still; he was as pale as sun-bleached bone. His blood pumped loudly in his ears.

  “Now, pay attention, Egert. Were you with the dean when he heard of the End of Time?”

  Egert’s throat had dried up; he could only nod.

  “Good. What did Master Luayan say; what did he do?”

  Horrified at himself, Egert squeezed out, “He left. He went to his study.”

  “And what did he do in his study?”

  Egert’s heart suddenly felt lighter: he realized that he did not know anything about this.

  “What did he do in his study, Egert?”

  Students were dancing around the room; Fox was twirling the pretty Farri, and in the midst of this lighthearted carousal both the murmuring voice of Fagirra and the drop of poison at the end of his elegant stiletto seemed utterly improbable.

  “I don’t know,” whispered Egert. “I did not see.”

  “You were asked to watch and listen, don’t you remember?” The tip of the stiletto was touching his shirt.

  “No one saw. It would have been impossible. He locked the door.”

  Fagirra sighed dejectedly. “That’s bad, very bad. But it reminds me: Did Master Luayan ever open his safe in front of you? Is it secured with a lock or with an enchantment?”

  Egert’s memory traitorously presented him with a picture of the dean approaching one of the locked cabinets.

  “With a lock,” he moaned, in order to have something to say.

  “What’s inside? Did you see?”

  None of the frolicking youths noticed either the stiletto or Egert’s pallor. Fox announced loud enough for all to hear that the time was approaching, the time when he would have to answer the call of nature. He left.

  “No,” Egert gasped. “I don’t know.”

  Fagirra suddenly stopped smiling: his face transformed from affectionate to rigid and cruel, like the executioner’s block. “Don’t you dare lie. Be very careful how you answer me: Is the dean planning to take any action in anticipation of the End?”

  The heavy outer door flew against the wall with a crash. The scholarly youths all turned toward it in surprise.

  First a foot in a jackboot stained with filth barged into the tavern, followed by an enormous gilded sword hilt, and then the rest of Lord Karver Ott entered; behind him tramped in two swords of ominous size, attached to two guards: Bonifor and the nameless one with the tiny mustache.

  The One-Eyed Fly had not seen such visitors in quite a long time. All the drinkers eyed them silently, as if trying to determine what they were. Even Fagirra interrupted his interrogation and frowned at them.

  Karver examined the students with round, slightly cloudy eyes: the newly minted lieutenant was drunk; however, neither Egert, hunched over in the dark corner, nor Fagirra, sitting very close to him, escaped the notice of his gaze.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Karver loudly and joyfully. “Is this your lady friend?”

  Everyone was silent; stomping his boots and dragging his heels with each step, Karver walked through the tavern and stopped opposite Egert and Fagirra, whose stiletto was concealed from the others’ eyes behind the massive table.

  “There’s something I don’t quite understand,” drawled Karver thoughtfully, switching his gaze from Egert to Fagirra and back again. “Just who is whose girlfriend, eh? Bonifor”—he glanced back at his associate—“take a look at this: They’re sitting here like doves, snuggling up against each other.” He hiccuped and then continued, turning to his second companion, who in this way finally gained a name, “Dirk, make sure to keep an eye on that one. We wouldn’t want to make a widow out of Egert’s girlfriend, now, would we?”

  Egert felt the poisoned blade reluctantly move away, and he breathed more freely.

  “Hey, swordsmen!” The students had gathered in a dense mass, and the looks they were directing at the newcomers were far from affectionate. “Have you lost something? Do you need help finding it?”

  Karver nodded to the unarmed youths and casually spit on the well-used wooden floor. The spittle unfortunately landed on the boot of the mustachioed Dirk; he hurriedly wiped off his offended boot with the side of the other. His spur clanked.

  “Get up, Egert,” suggested Bonifor cordially. “Say good night to your sweetheart. It’s time to go.”

  Glancing to the side, Egert saw that the venomous barb of the stiletto was concealed in a tiny iron sheath attached to Fagirra’s bootleg. He could have passionately kissed all of them: Karver, Bonifor, and the mustachioed Dirk.

  Karver, in the meantime, had stepped forward, and his hand adamantly seized Egert by the collar; some confusion followed because both Dirk and Bonifor simultaneously tried to carry out the exact same action. Fagirra stood up leisurely and retreated to the side.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” several voices yelled in admonishment. The compact group of students surged forward, and the learned youths surrounded the guards and Egert.

  “Egert, what’s this about?”

  “Oh, their buttons are so shiny! Let’s pluck them off, yeah?”

  “Would you look at that, three on one, and they’re still baring their teeth!”

  “Give Egert a pair of knives, let him throw them. Their buttons will fall off all on their own.”

  Karver smirked scornfully and put his hand on his sword hilt; the wall of students moved slightly, but the scholarly youths did not disperse.

  Just then Fox, having answered the call of nature, returned to the tavern in high spirits. Pushing his way through the crowd of his comrades and sweeping his eyes over the three armed newcomers who were looming over a very pallid Egert, Gaetan instantl
y assessed the situation.

  “Papa!” he yelped, flinging himself on Karver’s neck.

  Confusion reigned again. Dirk and Bonifor spun away from Egert and gaped in shock at the redheaded lad who was blubbering on the chest of their lieutenant.

  “Daddy, why did you forsake Mama!”

  Giggles could be heard in the mass of students. Karver was furiously trying to tear Fox’s hands away from his ribbons and epaulets.

  “You … You…,” he snorted, unable to add anything further.

  Fox wrapped his arms and legs around Karver, who was barely able to keep his feet under him. Gaetan gently clasped his ear and said in a theatrical whisper, “Do you remember how you dragged my mama to a hayloft?”

  “Get him off me!” Karver snapped at his companions.

  Fox emitted a distressed howl. “What! Are you denying it?” Leaping off the lieutenant, he fixed him with round, shocked, honey-colored eyes. “You’re renouncing your own son? Well, look at me: I might as well be a copy of you! We have the same disgusting snouts!”

  The students were falling over themselves with laughter, and even Egert smiled wanly. Dirk was looking around nervously, and Bonifor’s bloodshot eyes darted around the room ever more rapidly.

  Suddenly, as if stricken with a thought, Fox screwed up his face suspiciously. “But maybe … Maybe you don’t know how to make babies, after all!”

  Finally getting his bearings, Karver drew his sword. The students sprang back, all except for Fox who, with a mournful expression, took a pepper pot from the table and, with a quick toss, emptied it into the lieutenant’s face.

  The owner, the cook, and the servants all jumped out of their skins at the wild howl; gasping and coughing, Karver fell down onto the floor, trying to scratch out his own eyes. Dirk and Bonifor both seized their weapons, but their heads were bombarded from all sides by stools, beer mugs, and any cutlery that fell into the furious hands of the students. Showered with taunts and insults, climbing over a mountain of capsized furniture, futilely swinging their blades and promising to return, the gentlemen of the guards disgracefully retired from the field of battle.