The Scar

by Marina Dyachenko

  Every morning, Dinar had taken his cloak from the hook that was nailed into the wall over his bed, and perhaps he had glanced out the window. His gaze would have taken in the same exact scene that had diverted Egert so many times: the interior courtyard with the verdant flower bed in the center, the blank wall to the right, a row of narrow windows to the left, and the majestic stone back of the main building with its two circular balconies across the way. Right now on one of these balconies, a self-important servant was shaking the dust out of a geographical chart made of velvet and embroidered with silk; the dust spun around the entire courtyard.

  The man who had been killed by Egert had lived in this small room, he had gone to lectures every day, he had read books about the history of battles and commanders, but he himself had not carried weapons and had not felt it was necessary. Toria, then still calm and happy, and not morose and alienated like now, had seen him every day. Carried away by discussions, for which they must have had a multitude of topics, they spent their free hours in the library, or the hall, or in one of spare teaching rooms; sometimes, Dinar would invite Toria to his room and then she, as was her wont, would perch on the edge of the table, and swing her feet, clad in narrow-toed slippers.

  And then they had planned their wedding. Dinar had probably trembled when he presented himself to the dean to ask for Toria’s hand. The dean had probably been well disposed toward Dinar, and then, happy, the future bride and groom had set out on a journey: on a betrothal trip? On a research expedition? What had they been searching for, some kind of manuscript, was it not? Whatever the cause, the goal of the travelers was Kavarren, where Egert Soll was sitting in a tavern with a group of his acquaintances.

  Dean Luayan’s purpose was inscrutable, but it was definitely not an accident that Dinar’s killer now rested in his deserted cot. But what about that book with the portrait? How many days had it been lying there in the dark corner under the bed, waiting for Egert to take it in his hands?

  In the morning, when Fox’s departing footsteps had faded into the vigorous stomping of the other students’ hurrying to the lecture hall, Egert finally threw the blanket from his head and stood up.

  His bones ached from the sleepless night. The book rested there, under his pillow, and in the light of day Egert once again ventured to look at the portrait.

  Never had the flesh-and-blood Toria looked at Egert the way she now looked out of the drawing. Perhaps she looked only at Dinar this way, and he, generous like all lovers, had decided to capture this look on paper, to share his joy with the world. But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps the drawing was not meant for others’ eyes at all, and Egert was committing a grave offense, scrutinizing it minute after minute.

  Scarcely able to avert his eyes, he turned them to look at the dented edge of the table. The painful feeling that had been born in him last night was gaining strength; soon it would develop into a full-blown melancholy.

  He could hardly even remember Dinar’s face, but then again, he had never really looked him in the face. All that remained in his memory was the simple, dark clothing, the challenging voice, and the feckless swordplay of an inexperienced man using someone else’s sword. If someone were to ask Egert what color Dinar’s eyes were, or his hair, he would not be able to say. He could not remember.

  What had this unknown youth been thinking of when he touched the tip of his pencil to this paper? Did he draw from memory, or had Toria sat in front of him, teasing him and then laughing at the sudden onset of a certain tension? Why had these two needed to come to Kavarren? What evil fate directed their path, and why had that evil fate fallen on Egert’s hand? He really had not meant to …

  I did not mean to do it, said Egert to himself, but the oppressive feeling did not leave him; it felt as if iron claws, corroded with age, were ripping through his soul. Flogging his memory for the face of Dinar, he suddenly, and far too clearly, envisioned him sitting at the table in this very room, and he became afraid to turn around, lest he have to meet his eyes.

  I did not mean to! said Egert to the imaginary Dinar. I did not intend to kill you; you impaled yourself on my sword. I can’t really be a murderer, can I?

  Dinar was silent. The rusty claws clutched at Egert.

  He shuddered. He turned a page of the book, hiding the portrait of Toria beneath it, and his gaze fell on a black band of lines. Mechanically running his eyes over the same fragment a few times, he suddenly became aware of its meaning.

  It is believed that the protector of warriors, Khars, was once a real person, and furthermore that in the depths of unrecorded time he distinguished himself by his ferocity and brutality. It is said that he killed the wounded, those whose case was hopeless as well as those who might be healed, and that he did this, of course, not out of charity, but for purely practical reasons: the wounded were useless, a burden to all, and it was easier to bury them than …

  Dinar was buried beneath a smooth slab with no ornamentation. The sword had run through him, and the last thing he had seen in life was the face of his murderer. Did he have enough time to think of Toria? How long had the seconds of dying dragged out for him?

  The cemetery by the city walls of Kavarren. The weary birds on the headstones. And that inscription on someone’s grave:

  I shall take wing once more.

  The rusty claws clenched into a fist, and the realization that what he had done to Dinar was beyond recall descended upon Egert with an unbearable heaviness. Never before had he been so keenly aware that he lived in a world that was filled with death, a world that was divided by the boundary between all that could be amended and all that was irreversible: no matter how much grief it caused, there was no turning back.

  Recovering his senses with difficulty, Egert saw that he was clutching the portrait in his hands: the slip of paper with the drawing was crushed. Egert spent a long time smoothing it out against the table, biting his lips and trying to think of what he should do now. Did Toria know about the drawing? Maybe she had searched for it and grieved at its loss; maybe she had forgotten about it, oppressed by the misfortune that had befallen her. Or perhaps she had never even seen the portrait: maybe Dinar had drawn it in a burst of inspiration and then lost it.

  He put the drawing back inside the book; then he gave way once more and took it out again to have another look: for the last time because, whether he wanted to or not, he had to give the book to the dean. It is possible that this was a trap, and it would be best to put his discovery back where he found it, but might it not be important to Toria? The drawing should belong to her. Egert would hand it over to the dean, and he could decide when and how to show it to Toria.

  He made the decision and immediately felt better. Holding the book in his hands, he walked toward the door, intending to go to the dean’s study right away, but then he turned back. He sat at the table for a minute, then buried the dark book under his arm, clenched his teeth, and went out into the corridor.

  His journey turned out to be long and arduous. As soon as he set out, Egert perceived the complete madness of his plan. He would show up at the dean’s study, give him the book, and in so doing, he would confess that he had seen the drawing. And whose was it? Oh, just the deceased fiancé of Toria, the victim of his own cruelty.

  He turned back two times, meeting shocked students along the way who looked askance at him. Clutching the book in numbed fingers, Egert finally stood at the doors to the dean’s study, but he felt that he could not continue; he felt that if he carried out his plan it would be tantamount to an acknowledgment of his own infamy.

  With his whole heart, he wished that the dean would be anywhere at that moment except in his study, and his heart fell when the familiar voice called out to him in greeting. “Egert? Please, come in.”

  The steel wing gleamed dimly. The cabinets and shelves beheld the guest in severe silence. The dean put his work aside and stood to greet Egert.

  Egert could not hold his gaze and lowered his eyes. “I came to … give you…”
/>   “You already finished it?” the dean marveled.

  Egert took a faltering breath before speaking again. “This is … not that book. This is one I … I found…” And, unable to squeeze out another word, he held out the ill-fated volume to the dean.

  Either Egert’s hand was shaking or Luayan hesitated while taking the book, but, quaking as if it were alive, its pages flew open, and it almost fell to the floor. Breaking free as if by its own will, a single white slip of paper described a spiral in the air and then settled at Egert’s feet; as before, the drawing of Toria seemed just about to smile.

  A second passed. The dean did not move. Slowly, like a wind-up toy, Egert bent over and picked up the portrait; without looking up, he held it out to the dean, but another hand pulled at it with such force that the paper tore into two pieces.

  Egert raised his eyes: right in front of him, pale, shaking with fury, stood Toria. Egert recoiled, burned to ashes by the hatred filling her narrowed eyes.

  Perhaps she wished to say that Egert had committed a sacrilege, that Dinar’s drawing was now defiled by the hands of his murderer, that in touching an object that had once belonged to her fiancé, Egert had transgressed all possible bounds of shamelessness: it is possible that she wanted to say these things, but the instantaneous flush of rage had robbed her of the ability to speak. All her pain and all her indignation, which had been restrained until this moment, now rushed forth; this man, tainted with Dinar’s blood, desecrated not only the hallowed halls of her university, but also the very memory of her deceased beloved.

  Without taking her annihilating glare from Egert, Toria extended her hand and took—no, snatched—Dinar’s book from her father. She took a breath into her lungs, as if she was about to say something, but instead she suddenly walloped Egert in the face with the book.

  Egert’s head rang.

  Having expressed her strangled fury in the blow, Toria regained the ability to speak, and the words were accompanied by another blow. “Scum! Don’t you dare!”

  It is scarcely possible that Toria herself knew at that moment just what it was that Egert should not dare to do. Having fully lost the power to control herself, she lashed out at the scarred face in a frenzy.

  “Don’t you dare! Scoundrel! Wretch! Get out of my sight!” Desperate, spiteful tears flew from her eyes in all directions.

  “Toria!” Dean Luayan seized his daughter by the hand. She struggled with him briefly; then she convulsed into hysterical weeping, and falling on her knees to the floor, she gasped through fitful sobs, “I detest him. I … de … test … him.…”

  Egert stood still, unable to take even a step. Blood flowed down his lips and chin from his broken nose.

  * * *

  He sat at the edge of the canal, where he could watch the arched bridge from below: the mossy stones flecked with water; the solid brickwork; the underside of the railing; the clattering wheels; the tromping feet; the boots, shoes, and bare soles, gray from dust; and again wheels, hooves, shoes.…

  From time to time he lowered a bedraggled handkerchief into the water and applied it to his nose. The flow of blood had calmed, but at times it began to flow once more. The sight of it caused Egert to shudder involuntarily.

  He watched the smooth surface of the stagnant water and remembered Toria crying.

  He had never seen her tears before. Not even when Dinar died; not even at the burial. Though, truth be told, Egert had not actually been at the burial; he knew about it solely through the words of others.

  She was not one to cry in front of witnesses. It was evident that her pain was quite unbearable, and it was equally evident that this pain had been inflicted by Egert, who was born into this world only to cause Toria suffering. Heaven, he would happily rid the world of his presence; he just did not know how. The Wanderer had left him no way out.

  Egert flung the handkerchief, by this time only a filthy rag, into the canal. He had to return to the university. He absolutely had to find the onetime lodger of the Noble Sword. He must convince the strange and dreadful man; he must implore him: he would beg on his knees, if need be. Just, dear Heaven, let him remove the curse; otherwise Egert would go out of his mind.

  Struggling to stand up, he elbowed his way onto the bridge. He started back from a passing cart; then he slowly went along a street that was already long familiar, trying not to walk out into the middle of it and constantly peering about to see if there was any danger. The marks of Toria’s blows still blazed on his face.

  Passing through the square where the stone Spirit of Lash gleamed on a pedestal, Egert diligently avoided a small group of silent people attired in the same kind of robes as the Spirit wore. Intent gazes from under those brooding hoods seemed to alight upon him for a second, but in the same instant the gray figures turned and walked away.

  A massive cloth rose, the emblem of a guild, swayed over the entrance to a perfume shop; the bloom of this noble flower, which was actually more reminiscent of a head of cabbage, hung listlessly from a thorny, copper stem. Jars and phials were frozen in the wide windows like soldiers lined up by rank. Egert’s head spun from the thick, sweet smell that wafted from the wide-open doors. He hurried past the shop, and suddenly froze. A strange, unfamiliar sensation imperiously commanded him to stop.

  In the shop, somewhere in its fragrant depths, a heavy object fell with a crash, breaking into pieces; directly after this a child’s voice cried out thinly and the sound of swearing could be heard. Then a lanky gentleman with a fastidious expression on his face paraded out the door, wiping off his soiled sleeve: apparently an irate customer. Then the owner of the shop—Egert recognized him by that compulsory rose, tattooed on the back of his hand—pulled a boy out the exit by his ear. The boy was about twelve years old and obviously an apprentice.

  Such scenes were hardly a curiosity in businesses, but especially so in artisans’ quarters. Easily ten times a day, a person was thrashed here, and the passersby did not pay any special attention to the bawls of those who were being disciplined: they were content to allow the educational process to take its own course. The young apprentice had committed an offense, apparently a serious one, and the owner was moved to anger in earnest. Frozen in place five steps away, Egert saw how the hand that held the whip clenched nervously, and the rose petals on the tattoo stirred slightly from this barely perceptible movement.

  The boy was firmly wedged between the powerful knees of the owner. Egert saw a small purple ear beneath a tuft of flaxen hair, round, frightened eyes, and the pink expanse between his lowered trousers and his lifted shirt. The boy submissively awaited his punishment, but Egert suddenly felt low, melancholy, and queasy.

  The owner struck, and Egert was immersed in a wave of pain.

  He stood five steps away, yet in some mysterious fashion the pain of an unknown boy descended upon him with such force, it was as if he were suddenly without skin, peeled like a carcass under a butcher’s knife. Another feeling was added to the sensation of pain, a feeling that was not a whit better than the pain: Egert suddenly realized that the owner took pleasure in whipping his apprentice, that he was venting all his accumulated frustration on the boy, that it did not matter at all to him now who he was beating, just so long as it was strenuous, just so long as it went on for a long time, just so long as it could soothe his ravenous soul. Egert had no time to ponder how this agonizing new sense had appeared in him, nor did he have time to wonder at it: he vomited all over the pavement. Someone nearby swore, the blows continued to rain down, and Egert realized that he was about to faint.

  He fled in whatever direction his feet would go, then he walked, and then he plodded along, barely able to shuffle his feet. From every window, from every entrance to a courtyard, from every side street he felt pain; it ran high, like water from an overflowing well.

  These were only echoes: intense or weak, keen or sluggish. Someone was crying, someone was accepting blows, someone was inflicting them, and someone was suffering from the desire to hit someone wi
thout knowing who. A stench fell from one of the windows onto Egert: a man, skulking in a darkened room, was thinking about rape, and his desire was so avid that Egert, however hard it may have been to drag his feet, ran away. In another window, despair had taken up residence: impenetrable despair, which would soon lead to a noose. Egert groaned and quickened his pace. In a tavern people were brawling; a chill tugged at Egert’s skin from the alien vehemence, the obscure, insensate passion of heavy fists.

  The city loomed over Egert like a fetid chunk of porous cheese, mottled with the pits of windows and alleys. Violence emanated from all sides in waves. Egert could sense it with his skin, and it sometimes seemed to him that he could see ragged clots of it quivering like aspic. The violence was entwined with pain, and pain required violence; at times Egert’s blighted senses blurred and refused to serve any longer.

  Some intuition or miracle finally led Egert to the university. Someone hailed him as he neared the entrance, but Egert could not answer. Fox caught up to him, looking stunned.

  “Hey, Egert! What in Heaven happened to your face? It looks like it’s been crushed!”

  Mischievous eyes the color of honey twinkled sympathetically: Fox had also received such injuries more than once. Gazing at his round, childlike face, Egert suddenly realized that Fox really was sympathizing with him, and that in this sympathy there was not the slightest hint of pretense.

  “Don’t worry about it, brother.” Gaetan grinned widely. “Your face isn’t some expensive piece of pottery. Smashing it up now and then can only make it stronger!”

  The university building seemed like an island of inviolable tranquillity in a sea of wickedness. Egert leaned against its wall and smiled wanly.

  * * *

  Porcelain beads, which had slipped off the thread of a broken necklace, bounced across the dean’s desk. The bulk of them were lost amongst the papers, but a few of the colored beads fell off the edge of the desk and came to rest in the cracks of the stone floor. Slowly, unreflectively, yet with a precision worthy of a better cause, the dean gathered them up and placed them one by one in his palm. A second after each bead hit his palm, a June bug awkwardly buzzed up out of his hand.