The Scar

by Sergey Dyachenko

  “Yes,” he replied distantly.

  “Good. Is it true that all this time you lived at the university, keeping close company with the dean and his daughter, and that she almost became your wife?”

  He finally succumbed to the silent entreaty of Toria and decided to look at her.

  She sat, leaning forward and not taking her eyes off him. Egert felt how she relaxed slightly as soon as she caught his gaze. Her face warmed and her gnawed lips tried to form a smile. She was happy to see him, even now, on the brink of betrayal, and she rushed to pour into him all her frantic, almost maternal tenderness, unextinguished by torture, for surely they were also torturing him, they would continue to torture him, perhaps more roughly and painfully, in front of the whole city, in front of the woman he loved; she understood how it was with him, what ailed him now and what would happen later: she understood everything.

  It would have been easier for him to survive disdain than compassion. He turned his troubled gaze, full of hate, to Fagirra.

  “Yes!”

  At that moment something shivered in Toria’s eyes. Egert returned her gaze, and his hair stood up on his head because he too understood.

  His trembling hand lay on his scar. On one day only, and only one chance. Please do not let me err in answering.

  “Is it true that on the eve of the Plague you were in the dean’s study, and that you saw what happened there?”

  The path must reach its bitter end.

  “Yes,” he said for the fourth time.

  The executioner scratched his nose. He was bored.

  Fagirra smiled victoriously. “Is it true that the magical acts of the dean and his daughter called forth the Plague upon the city?”

  The steel blade had ripped through his cheek, and the curse had broken his life in two. He had been self-assured on that morning; the spring had broken out cold and lingering, and dewdrops had slithered down the tree trunks, as if weeping for someone. He had not shut his eyes when the Wanderer’s sword sank into his face; there was pain, but there was no fear even then.

  He felt the scar on his cheek come to life; it throbbed, full of fire. Still pressing his palm to his cheek, he looked down into the hall and met the gaze of perfectly clear eyes without eyelashes.

  The Wanderer stood by a wall in the crowd, but seperate from all. Among the crowd of curious, overwrought, scowling, and tense faces, his long face, notched with vertical wrinkles, seemed as detached as a lock hanging off a door. When that which is foremost in your soul becomes last. When five questions are asked and you answer yes.

  My fate steers me along a precisely designed line.

  He shivered. At that very moment Toria also recognized the Wanderer. Without turning around, Egert saw how her swollen lips at first tentatively, then more boldly and joyfully, slipped into a smile.

  Smiling, she would go to a horrible death. For it appeared that pardon for Egert sounded the death knell for Toria. She knew this and still smiled because in her life there had been the eternally green tree over the tomb of the First Prophet and those nights spent by the light of the fireplace and his promise to shed the curse for her sake.

  The foremost in his soul must become the last. For her sake, for the sake of fulfilling his promise, he had to denounce and betray her; he had to let her be judged. Who had woven this web?

  Heaven, he had paused for too long: already the hall was agitated and Fagirra was frowning, and the executioner was looking on with interest, casually lowering his sack to the floor.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, but his imagination could spit on him for all it cared whether his eyes were open or not; his imagination obligingly pushed on him a vivid, meticulously detailed picture of the torture chamber. Chains dig into his flesh, holding him down, the executioner methodically bends over him; he is unassuming and repulsive in his shapeless sack, and in his hands he holds the pliers. Egert’s clenched jaws are pried open with an enormous bar, the pliers come ever closer, the iron beak opens as if about to feast, Egert fitfully tries to turn his head away, somewhere in the darkness a placid voice utters the words “false witness,” and Egert feels the icy pinch of steel at the root of his tongue.…

  A man should not fear so. Thus do animals fear who have fallen into a trap, thus do cattle fear who are being driven to the gates of the slaughterhouse. By some miracle, Egert’s legs did not fall out from under him.

  Fagirra’s gaze lay on him like a gravestone; Fagirra’s gaze squeezed him, mastering his soul, disordering his thoughts. The fifth question had been asked.

  He must answer now, while the pliers were still in the sack, while the Wanderer looked on, aware of everything in advance. He would answer, and the fear would cease tormenting him: for why else would the scar ache so? It throbbed and fretted as if it were a living creature, as if it were a leech that had sucked his blood for so many days and now, right now, it was fated to die.

  “Egert.” The sound of the word barely carried from the prisoner’s dock. It is possible that Toria had not uttered it aloud, but he understood that she was giving her blessing to his fifth yes.

  … Fire in the fireplace, dark hair on the pillow, childlike fear and faith, also childlike, trusting. The high window of the library, a wet bird on the path, and the sun, the sun beats at the window. A basket in his arms, green onions tickling his hand, a warm roll from her hand, and the sun again. The print of a heel in soft, warm earth, her palms over his eyes, and the sun shines in through her fingers. The scent of wet grass, snow melting on hair …

  Toria quietly scraped her bench along the floor. “Egert.”

  How afraid she was for him. She wanted for this all to end as quickly as possible, for him to finally say the word.

  His hesitation would gain him nothing. His fear would speak on its own, and his lips would be unable to form any word other than the magical fifth yes. His vocal cords would refuse to work, should he wish to step away from the designated path.

  “Enough, Egert!” Fagirra glanced eloquently at the executioner. “I’ll ask you one last time: Is it true that the magical acts of the dean and his daughter called forth the Plague?”

  The Wanderer’s lipless mouth quivered slightly. It is quite easy to err, and a mistake will cost you much.… This moment will occur just once in your life, and if you let it slip away, all hope will be forever lost.

  So much pain in this hall! So much pain has settled into Toria’s small body! Oh, how the scar aches.

  Silence.

  He raised his eyes. Two windows watched him from the indifferent eyes of the Wanderer.

  “N…”

  The fear bellowed at him. It roared and jerked about, lacerating his throat, paralyzing his tongue. All his vast, overwhelming, omnivorous fear, which had for so long been building its fetid lair in Egert’s soul, howled and whirled like a raging monster.

  “… o.”

  The word broke free from his mouth and, nearly broken from exhaustion, he closed his eyes with a clear conscience, giving himself over to the lacerations of his fear.

  The word boomed out in the silent hall like an explosion from a gun turret.

  The students screamed victoriously, the crowd began to clamor, Fagirra snapped something sharply, and Toria, sitting stunned on her bench, exuded horror at the thought that the curse on Egert was now eternal and unbreakable. He perceived this and shuddered, his hands stretched out toward his mouth as if wishing to beat back the word that had just flown out, but he realized with relief that it was impossible to withdraw what had been said, however much the fear tried to turn him inside out. Reeling, he looked out into the hall, at the Wanderer, and his look contained something akin to a challenge.

  And then the Wanderer, who alone had remained impassive in the excited crowd, permitted himself to smile.

  The world lurched in front of Egert’s eyes; it swam, it faded as if it were being burned away. He felt a pure, placid calm. He wanted to close his eyes and bask in the incredible tranquillity, but then the world returned
; it collapsed in on him with the noise of the crowd and the shouts of the guards. Colors returned to it, and never in his life had Egert Soll seen such vivid colors.

  … Who are all these people? Who is that man, hiding his face under a hood? How dare they restrain that woman … Toria!

  The dais quivered. Egert realized that he was already running; someone in red and white flew off to the side in fear, sheltering behind a pike. The executioner’s stool fell on its side awkwardly, like a dead rat, and the iron pliers tumbled out of the sack.

  It seemed to Egert that he was moving slowly, like a fly bogged down in honey. Distorted faces flickered on the edge of his vision, shouts clamored on the edge of his hearing. Someone shouted, “Seize him!” Someone shouted, “Leave him be!” The students bellowed and the clerk hammered on his table, and the pale face of Toria moved ever closer. Ever closer were her eyes, flung open so wide that her curved eyelashes dented the skin of her eyelids and her enlarged pupils absorbed the light without sparkling; ever closer were her half-open, dry lips, her bitten, swollen lips. Egert ran for an eternity. The dais shuddered under his boots; someone stood in his path, but he flew off, swept away. Egert ran, and blood flowed over his cheek, over his lips, over his chin, dripping down onto his shirt: in the place of the scar now blazed an open wound.

  And then his feet tripped over an outstretched sword sheath and he fell, losing sight of Toria’s face, splaying out his elbows. The edge of the dais flashed before his eyes, then the high, dark ceiling, and from somewhere above him boomed the words, “Do you remember the punishment for false witness?”

  He saw veins pounding in a temple; twitching, bloodless lips; and dark fissures in the corner of a mouth: it was the face of the man who had tortured Toria. In Fagirra’s hands was a short sword, the weapon of the guards, and its tip was pointed directly at Egert’s stomach.

  Toria. He felt her weaken from intolerable terror; he felt the adamant arms of the executioner wrapped around her. A reddish black mist condensed in his eyes.

  Dive. Flip. His body had not known battle for two years, and he waited for it to disobey him, but he felt only ecstatic joy from his muscles, like the joy of a dog freed from its chain.

  Toria is struggling in someone’s arms! Who would dare touch her?

  He struck out, almost without looking, and the guard who had run up to him doubled over. His sword was about to fall out of his hands, but it did not fall, because Egert intercepted the heavy hilt. It was a short sword, an unfamiliar weapon, but his hand flew up, and to Egert’s amazement he heard the clash of metal on metal and saw sparks fly. Fagirra’s rabid, crazed eyes were right in front of him.

  Toria jerked in her captor’s hands. She was so close. Egert felt how the hands restraining her barbarically reopened the wounds left behind by torture, but she did not notice the pain. She emanated waves of fear for him, for Egert.

  The swords crossed again. Fagirra opened his mouth halfway, his weapon again darted up, and then Egert, despising the barrier separating him from Toria, lunged into a counterattack.

  It seems he yelled something. It seems someone in a gray robe dared to approach him from behind, Toria’s fear surged, and in the next second a bloodied thing fell heavily onto the dais, a thing that looked like a hand clutching a dagger. The tiny gibbet was swept away from the table, and the manikin slid out of the noose for the first time in many years. Then Fagirra’s sword flew out into the howling crowd, and Fagirra himself stumbled and fell; for a split second Egert looked down into his clouding eyes.

  “Egert!”

  Grubby hands were ruthlessly dragging her away. Egert bellowed indignantly and the short sword, won from an unknown guard, was already in flight.

  The life of the city’s executioner, his gray, dull life, ended in an instant. Clutching at the hilt that protruded from his back, the poor soul lay down on the dais at the feet of his recent victim. Toria stepped backwards and Egert met her eyes.

  Why has this happened to her? Blood, terror: why this? Poor girl.

  He ran again, and she darted forward to meet him. He was already stretching out his hand when he saw that she was staring at something behind his back. He turned just in time: Fagirra was already there, his teeth bared in his crooked mouth and his stiletto raised high.

  No, Toria, don’t be afraid. Never be afraid.

  He managed to avoid the first attack, but the fencing master was strong and tenacious.

  The stiletto almost grazed Egert’s hand a second time.

  A weapon! Heaven, send me a sword, even a kitchen knife!

  He stumbled and barely managed to keep to his feet. He could not let the stiletto get near Toria. One scratch would be enough; one scratch from the sharp tip, gleaming with a dark drop of poison, would be sufficient to kill her.

  The pliers clanked under his feet. He felt their weight in his hands as he flung them up in front of his body to defend himself and Toria. Just as he heaved them up, Fagirra launched into a violent, frantic attack.

  Egert did not want Toria to see this. He took a step back and put his arm around her shoulders and his palm over her eyes.

  Fagirra was still standing. The pliers protruded from his chest, and the wide-open iron beak snarled at Egert with impotent menace. Egert knew that the bloodstained handles peered out of Fagirra’s back. The death agony of the robed man was terrible, and Egert pressed Toria into his arms, striving not to touch her painful welts.

  Her face, half-hidden by his hand, seemed mysterious, as if it were under a mask. Her lips quivered like they were about to smile, her eyelashes fluttered against his palm, and for some reason he recalled the touch of a dragonfly’s wings.

  It felt like the passage of time altered; his hand tentatively raised itself to his face, and his fingers wonderingly explored his cheek. They did not find the scar.

  Incredible things were happening in the hall. The students were fighting and denouncing the robed men, tearing off their hoods.

  Egert did not notice. The roar of the crowd receded then disappeared completely, as if he had gone deaf. His vision split in some strange manner; casting his eyes over the pandemonium, he saw only the tall old man with his wrinkled face.

  The Wanderer slowly turned and walked toward the exit, slicing through the crowd the way a knife slices through water. He turned slightly at the threshold, and Egert saw his crystal-clear eyes close slightly, as if saying farewell.

  * * *

  The world is dissected by the horizon, and all roads rush toward its edge. They scatter beneath your legs like mice, and it is difficult to know if you are setting off on your path or if you have already returned.…

  * * *

  The crowd roared.

  Outside, people rushed into the courthouse from the square, desiring to see the witness with their own eyes and to understand what had happened. Inside the courtroom, tensions were very high.

  “Silence!” shouted the judge, and suddenly he dived under the table. The man in the gray hooded robe roared in horror, forcing the bloodstained stump of a hand against his chest. The students, overwhelmed by their own courage, pressed on the barrier of guards.

  “I am the witness!” Egert shouted, his voice ringing over the noise in the courtroom. “Did you hear that? I am the witness, and I am telling you: The servants of Lash caused the Plague! Toria is innocent, she told the truth! Dean Luayan saved us all! Do not dare to accuse his daughter!”

  The ring of guards pressed on the platform. People in red-and-white uniforms watched what was happening: The witness just killed two people in front of the court and the public.

  Meanwhile the fight continued out in the hall, but the hooded disciples of Lash, used to discipline, became an army within few seconds. Daggers and stilettos arose from under the sleeves of gray robes. The students still screamed out threats and curses—but they retreated, pressed by a powerful gray wall. They were unarmed—only the boldest managed to snatch a candlestick or a fragment of a bench.

  “Here are the cri
minals!” Egert moved forward. “Hold the Servants of Lash!”

  People crowded around the platform, and the guards were unable to push them away. The people saw what happened, just as the guards did, and if no one felt sorry about the city executor, the terrible loss of Lash’s servant shocked and frightened everyone.

  Egert tried to protect Toria: “She is innocent! Step back, everybody!”

  An officer who survived the Plague and whose hair had become gray overnight moved forward, holding his naked sword: “Surrender, you murderer. The court will announce the verdict.”

  The students were encircled by exposed blades like cattle in a slaughterhouse. The citizens, who only yesterday threw stones at the university, did not hurry to help them.

  “Surrender,” the officer repeated grimly.

  “You are not my enemy.” Egert looked into his eyes. “The Servants of Lash are the murderers! Here they are, arrest them in the name of the city!”

  The officer ignored Soll: “Arrest him.”

  The guards started to move in from three sides. For a second, Soll thought that he was observing the world with his ears, his skin, with the entire surface of his body; he saw Toria, frozen in horror, the corpse of Fagirra on the floor, the robed men with stilettos, students with broken noses, the judge on his knees crawling to the curtain. He saw the narrow door, behind which the sky turned blue and the crowd was roiling. He saw fear in the eyes of the guards approaching him … fear … but mixed with hope.

  The guards moved toward him with ropes.

  Egert smiled gently and took a step forward. He dived under their arms, tripping somebody’s foot, gripping sombody’s wrist wrapped in a leather glove, and pulled it over. He dropped this yielding body under the feet of his pursuers. Without looking, he struck the face of the guard who approached him from the rear with his elbow and managed to catch the sword of another guard after butting him with the top of his head. Someone in a red-and-white uniform tried to stop him—to his own dismay; Egert got hold of a second sword and jumped away.

  The crowd in the courtroom made way for him in panic as he rushed toward the wall of gray robes.