Bewildered, blind, led and nudged along the way, languishing from the fear that was as familiar as a chronic toothache, Egert was finally ordered to stop. The blindfold was whipped away from his eyes, and Egert saw that he was standing in front of a wall of heavy black velvet, which exuded a faint, bitter aroma unknown to him.
“You have been permitted to be present.” Fagirra’s robe rustled next to Egert’s, and the rough edge of his hood touched Egert’s cheek. “To be present and to keep silent. You are not to move from this spot. You are not to turn your head.”
Egert swallowed the sticky saliva that suddenly overwhelmed his mouth; Fagirra was obviously awaiting his answer, so Egert forced himself to nod.
A delicate, sweetish, slightly smoky fragrance was soon added to the bitter smell of the velvet. As he gazed at the black partition in front of him, Egert’s hearing became unusually acute. He heard a variety of sounds: far and near, subdued and susurrant, as if a horde of dragonflies were creeping about the inside of a glass jar, brushing their wings against the transparent walls.
The multitude of whispers was suddenly replaced by a desolate, muffled hush, which lasted long enough for Egert to slowly count to five. Then the black velvet partition shivered and the long, drawn-out sound, like nothing else on earth, instantly caused Egert to break out into a sweat: it was the dreary bellow of the ancient monster. That distant echo, which was heard by people out in the square and which had for so long disturbed the imagination of Egert, was nothing but a feeble shadow in comparison to this.
The velvet shifted again and then suddenly crashed down to the floor, dissolving in Egert’s vision from a blank wall into a black expanse, for there before his astounded eyes was revealed a hall of unimaginably large proportions.
It was inconceivable how such a colossal room could fit inside the Tower; for the first minute, Egert could make no sense of it, but upon closer inspection he saw that a line of tall mirrors encircled the hall. A long-nosed dwarf in a habit so fiery red that it scorched the eyes entered the velvety black space, encased in remote folds of fabric. His image was repeated many times in the mirrors’ luminous depths. He hoisted a vast trumpet to his mouth, using both hands to steady it, and with that instrument he produced that very same lingering sound that so boggled the imagination. Clouds of dense, dark blue smoke wafted from the mouth of the trumpet, which was turned upward while he blew on it.
There was an echoing rustle as many hundreds of hoods were lowered. The fiery red stain of the dwarf’s habit disappeared in the sea of gray robes, and a rustling whisper struck Egert in both ears, “Lash … ash … ashsha…” At first it seemed very far away, regardless of how keenly it penetrated Egert’s ears, but as it gathered strength, it became a piercing chant, echoing off the walls of the chamber. The chant entranced Egert, ushering a peculiar torpor into his body, and once again the long note of the vast trumpet resounded, filling the space above the lowered gray hoods with a shadowy figure, molded from swirls of smoke.
Egert’s heart thudded in his chest. The smoke had an unusually strong, pleasant, yet at the same time repulsive smell. “Lashhh … asha … shash…” The chant now came close, now receded, and Egert seemed to see surf rhythmically breaking against the shore of a gray sea composed of hoods.
The figures, shrouded in robes, were moving, some smoothly and regularly, some suddenly shuddering in sync as if from an unexpected convulsion. The space in the center of the hall gradually cleared, and an old man appeared, stretched out on the black, velvet floor. His silver mane spread out around his small, wizened face, which seemed to be framed by whiteness, like the moon is framed by shafts of light. The gray robes once again converged, and Egert saw the resplendently silver gray head rise up like a wisp of foam above the sea of gray hoods.
The ceremony, fascinating yet incomprehensible, beautiful yet monotonous, continued perhaps for a minute or perhaps for a full hour: Egert had lost all sense of time. When finally a wave of fresh evening air hit him in the face, he realized that he was standing by a grilled window, clutching the thick bars and staring at the main square, which was very familiar to him even though he was seeing it from this vantage point for the first time.
Then the ever-present Fagirra, laying his hand on Egert’s shoulder, whispered right in his ear. “I know a good dozen of the wealthiest and most eminent people of this city who would give their right arm for the singular good fortune of being present in the Tower during the sacramental.”
Turning toward the square, Fagirra exposed his face to the wind. The wide sleeves of his robe slipped up, revealing his wrists. Egert caught a glimpse of a green tattoo, the official mark of a licensed guild: the guild of swordmasters.
Fagirra smiled, having noticed Egert’s glance. “The paths that lead people into the shade of Lash are intricate and often inscrutable. Let’s go, Egert. The honor that has been conferred upon you is boundless. The Magister awaits you.”
* * *
The Magister’s hair seemed even whiter up close: like snow sparkling in the sun, like bright clouds at noon, like the finest quality linen. Inhaling a new scent—the smoke of various harsh fragrances wafted densely through the Magister’s study—Egert, feeling more dead than alive, answered questions. Yes, he was an auditor at the university. Yes, Dean Luayan was, without a doubt, an archmage and a man of immense worth. No, Egert was not yet succeeding at his studies but he hoped that, with time …
Egert’s blundering recital of these hopes was smoothly interrupted by the soft voice of the Magister. “You are unhappy, aren’t you, Egert?”
Egert stopped short and fell silent. He could not tear his eyes away from the shaggy crimson carpet that covered the floor of the study from wall to wall.
“Do not hide your head. Any man with even the slightest bit of perception can see this at first glance. You have survived some misfortune, haven’t you?”
Meeting the wise, all-knowing gaze of the decrepit Magister, Egert experienced an overwhelming desire to recount everything he knew about the curse and the Wanderer. He had already gathered breath in his lungs, but in the end he said nothing, for no other reason than the very first word pronounced by him turned out to be quite discordant and pitiful.
“I … a…” Ashamed at his weakness, Egert wilted.
After waiting a minute, the Magister smiled gently. “A man, unfortunately, quite often finds himself unhappy. At times he may also find that he is weak, irresolute, and vulnerable. Isn’t that so, Egert?”
It seemed to Egert that hope itself was watching him from the eyes of the silver-haired elder. He leaned forward and nodded emphatically. “It is so.”
“A man is vulnerable only when he is isolated,” the Magister continued pensively. “Cowardice is the lot of the solitary man. Do you think that’s true, Egert?”
Egert swallowed. He did not quite understand where the Magister was going with this line of questioning, but to be on the safe side he agreed once again. “Yes.”
The Magister stood up. His silver mane swayed majestically. “Egert, you have a difficult path in front of you, but at the end of it you will find power. It is not customary to tell neophytes of the more profound mysteries of Lash, but know this: The Sacred Spirit attends to every word I say. So, while I cannot immediately reveal to you the secrets toward which your soul undoubtedly strives, I invite you to enter our order under the authority of Brother Fagirra. You will become a soldier of Lash, and there is no more honorable service on this earth. Many mysteries will be revealed to you as the years go by, but even now the Sacred Spirit and legions of his acolytes stand behind you. Any insult that is heaped upon you will become an insult to the order: even a wry glance cast at your back will be swiftly and inescapably punished. All your actions will be righteous, even if they are seen by others as bloody crimes. We will gather you unto ourselves, for anything you do for the will of Lash is just. You have seen how lesser mortals fear and respect the brothers of the Order of Lash: a single glimpse of a man in a gray robe summo
ns forth solemn awe in ordinary men, and soon—” The Magister raised his hand. “—soon that awe will grow into veneration. Power and might instead of solitude and eternal terror. Do you understand, Egert?”
Egert stood as if thunderstruck. The Magister’s offer had caught him unawares and now, terrified, he tried to gather the fragments of his scattered thoughts.
The Magister held his peace; his eyes, his wise, tired eyes, seemed to look straight into Egert’s soul.
Egert coughed and forced himself to speak through his confusion and fear. “And what would you require of me?”
The Magister took a step toward him. “I have faith. I have faith in you, Egert, just as Brother Fagirra immediately, from the very first glance, had faith in you. For the time being, all you have to do is stay silent: that is the first trial, the trial of secrecy. Remain silent about the fact that you met Brother Fagirra, that you were in the Tower, and that you were present at one of the Sacraments. Also, tell no one of this conversation; when we are sure that you are able to keep silent, as silent as a stone, then you will be told of our other requirements, Egert. You can rest assured that they will be within your power. As we part today, I offer you the promise of another interview. The gray hood will give you faith and security; it will raise you up above the crowd. Good-bye for now, Egert.”
In utter silence, Fagirra led Egert from the premises of the Tower by a secret path, but a different one from that by which Egert first found his way into the tabernacle of Lash.
6
Egert did not tell anyone about his visit to the Tower. Several weeks went by, but the Brotherhood of Lash did not exhibit any more signs of interest in the auditor Soll, so his nerves began to settle: it seemed that he could put off making any decision for an indefinite period of time.
More than once he donned the gray robe in his mind’s eye. Hearing the long, melancholy sound that occasionally resounded from the Tower, he recalled the bitter smell of the thick velvet, the slow dance of shadowy faces, concealed by hoods, and the face of the Magister, white as the moon. The pledge of security and, in time, power was a great temptation for Egert, but every time he thought about the hooded mantles of the acolytes, he experienced a strange spiritual unease. Something hindered him; something disturbed him and clawed at his soul. He put it down to his usual diffidence, but he soon learned to shun both thoughts of the Order of Lash and chance encounters with his acolytes on the street.
In the meanwhile, a heat wave had descended on the city, a true summer heat wave. At noon the rutted back streets were drenched in sun from wall to wall, and the flecks of sunlight dancing on the canals were painful to look at. The shore of the river just outside the city served as a meeting place for the endless stream of picnickers who came and went; the townsmen, bathed in sweat, plunged into the water using ferns as screens, and the townswomen perched in close-knit groups to bathe in the reeds, where they often fell prey to Fox, who had taken to swimming underwater with a reed in his mouth. He never let the chance slip to sneak up on some hapless female bather and pinch her on whatever part of her body was most conspicuous at the time he passed.
Egert was one of the dense group of students who oversaw Fox’s adventures and who each in their own turn had to contrive diversions appropriate to studious young men. The shore was full of splashing, shrieks, and giggles. Having found a set fishing line under the water, divers would treat their comrades to greasy fish soup. For the most part Egert sat on the shore and would go into the water only up to his waist; his timidity was noticed, but beyond a few good-hearted jests, the matter was left to rest.
Soon, however, the exams, which would elevate the students to the next level, approached: the Inquirers wished to become Reasoners, the Reasoners desired to become Aspirants, and these, in their turn, wanted to become Dedicated. The university seemed as if it were burning with fever: bloodshot eyes, red rimmed and salty from sitting behind books night and day, peered out of every corner. Egert watched as the learned youths entered the headmaster’s study one by one, some with deliberate buoyancy, some with overt terror. Many of them, it turned out, believed in omens: in their various devices and tricks—spitting, prayers, and complicated signs formed with their fingers—Egert was shocked to recognize some of his own protective rituals.
Egert never had the chance to see what went on beyond the austere doors of the headmaster’s study. The other students told him that the headmaster, Dean Luayan, and all the teachers who had ascended the rostrum in the course of the year sat behind the long table in the headmaster’s study, facing the examinee. They said that all the examiners were extremely strict, but Dean Luayan was especially so. Not every student succeeded in passing the exam; moreover, a full half of the unfortunates who fell short owed their failure to the severe mage.
On the eve of the exams, Fox fell into a panic. He excoriated himself in every way possible: the blandest of the oaths that he heaped upon his own person were “idiotic, half-witted fool” and “brainless chicken shit.” Gaetan stared at the book he was studying, then threw his gaze at the ceiling in despair, then flopped down on his bed and declared to Egert that he, of course, would fail, that it was impossible to remain a Reasoner forever, that his father would not give him any more money and that he would force his son to be the clerk of a stinking apothecary in perpetuity, where even the flies withered and died from the smell of castor oil. When Egert timidly suggested that perhaps it might be a good idea to turn to the dean for help, Fox started brandishing his arms at him and drubbing his feet on the floor; he called Egert a lunatic, an idiotic joker, and explained that there was only one thing left for him to do: he had to leave the university once and for all.
On the day of the exam, Fox was not at all himself. Egert could not drag a single word out of him all morning. At the door to the headmaster’s study the young men, stuffed full of knowledge, gathered in a tense, excited knot, hissing and cursing at each other. Many of the faces had frozen into the intense expression of a tightrope walker, inching his way along a rope with a lit candle clenched in his teeth. As each exited the study, they immediately poured out their souls to their comrades, some joyful, some despairing. Egert, who as an auditor was not subject to compulsory examination, shuddered at the very thought of being required, like Fox, to appear before the eyes of the strict, academic judiciary.
Regardless of his paranoid expectations, Gaetan passed the exam; immeasurably happy, he immediately invited Egert to come visit the house of his father in a nearby town. Egert was stunned yet grateful, but in the end he had to say no.
The students, who received two months of vacation, enthusiastically discussed their plans for the summer. A large portion of them decided to spend their break in their family homes, whether those were grand estates or tiny hovels; a smaller portion of the students, mainly the poorest, decided to find work on a farm somewhere: they too invited Egert to join them. He recalled his unpleasant experience with rural labor under the guidance of the hermit and refused them as well.
Upon the departure of Fox, Egert again found himself alone.
The corridors of the university emptied, as did the annex; in the evenings, light gleamed out of only the occasional window. An old servant, equipped with a torch and a cudgel, made nightly tours of the university buildings and grounds. An old washwoman, having tidied the annex, brought dinner to the dean and his daughter, and to the few employees and servants who remained for the summer. Egert would also have been relegated to this group, but he unexpectedly received another missive from home and was able to make a new payment for his keep.
This time a note accompanied the money. Egert’s heart crashed against his rib cage when he recognized the handwriting of his father. The elder Soll did not ask a single question; he only coolly informed his son that he had been deprived of his lieutenancy and expelled from the regiment, and that the epaulets had been publicly shorn from his disgraced and mud-splattered uniform. The vacant lieutenancy had been filled by a young man by the name of Karver
Ott; by the way, he had inquired as to Egert’s current location.
Reading and rereading this letter, Egert at first relived his shame; then that feeling was exchanged for nostalgia for Kavarren.
He imagined his home with the militant emblem on the gates an infinite number of times, and the most desperate, inconceivable plans crept into his head. In his dreams he saw himself secretly arriving in town and climbing up his own front steps, also secretly because no one had forgiven his desertion. But then witnesses of his former degradation appeared who tracked him down specifically so that they could spit in his scarred face. And would he really have to talk to his father? And how could he look his mother in the eyes? No, while the curse remained upon him, he could not return to Kavarren.
Then his thoughts turned in a different direction: Time was passing and every long day brought him closer to his meeting with the Wanderer. This meeting became a constant thought for Egert, a fixed, obsessive idea; the Wanderer began to appear in his dreams. The curse would be broken and Egert would return to Kavarren with every right to do so. He would not hide from anyone: he would walk through the main street with his head held high, and when the people shrank back at the appearance of the guards, then, in front of them all, he would challenge Karver to a duel.
Sitting in the damp, half-lit room, Egert trembled with fervor and agitation. It would be a beautiful, gallant challenge. The crowd would hush, Karver would blanch and try to squirm his way out of it, Egert would deride him for his cowardice in front of everyone, he would draw his sword and cross blades with the contemptible coward, and he would kill him: he would kill his former friend, who had become a mortal enemy, because villainy deserves to be punished, because …
The Scar Page 21
