He winced from pain. Karver had put his blade to Egert’s ear. “What are you thinking about? A sharp sword can cut off an ear, a finger, whatever is desired. Or has it happened already! It is true that students are castrated, isn’t it, lady?”
Fear had taken away from Egert the ability to think or feel. From Karver’s words he understood only that Toria was still here, and reproachfully, with almost childish hurt, he thought, Why?
The shrieking, black streetlamp swung in the wind. The night seemed to Toria like a viscous wad of tar. The sticky air blocked her larynx and it was impossible to draw in the breath for words or a shout. Undoubtedly, she should call for help, drub her fists on doors and shutters, run to her father in the end, but shock deprived her of the ability to struggle; it turned her into a mute, impotent witness.
The goat moved hesitantly. Bonifor cut short her attempt to escape, squeezing her head between his knees.
Karver brought his sword up under the chin of his victim. “Well, Egert? Unfasten your belt!”
Then the darkness thickened, compressed Egert from all sides, squeezed his head and chest, filled his ears like a cork and plugged his throat, not letting the tiniest bubble of air into his lungs. For a second it seemed to him that he was buried alive, that there was neither top nor bottom, that the earth was pressing, pressing …
Then everything became lighter, and with his last glimmer of consciousness, Egert understood that he was dying. Thank Heaven. He was simply dying, gently and without torments. The damned Wanderer had overlooked something; there was something he had not taken into account! Egert could not conquer his fear, but he also could not transgress this boundary. He could not, and so here was death. Thank Heaven.
He smoothly keeled over. His face crashed into the dirt, which turned out to be as warm and soft as a feather bed. How easy. The black lantern keeled over, the black sky keeled over, and Karver yelled and waved his little sword. Let him: Egert was not here, he was no longer here. Finally.
The three guards leaned over the prostrate man. The miserable goat, bounding away, began to bleat keenly and mournfully.
“Egert! Hey, Egert! Quit pretending. Hey!”
Toria darted forward, hurling first Dirk to one side and then Bonifor to the other with a glance. Egert was lying on his side. His face, detached and stiff, now fell into shadow, now again was snatched from the darkness by the light of the swaying streetlamp.
“And now you will answer for this,” Toria said with surprising calmness. “You will answer for everything. You have murdered him, you scum!”
“But lady,” mumbled Bonifor in confusion. Dirk moved backwards, and Karver thrust his sword into its sheath.
“We didn’t even lay a finger on him. What is it that you think we are guilty of!”
“You will answer,” promised Toria through her teeth. “My father will hunt you down and put you in the ground far from your wretched Kavarren, at the world’s edge.”
Dirk kept stepping back farther and farther. Bonifor, looking sideways first at the lifeless Egert, then at Toria, followed his example. Karver, it seemed, had lost his courage.
“You have never seen a real mage before,” continued Toria in a voice that was not her own, but somehow strange and metallic. “But you will instantly recognize my father when he appears before you!”
Karver raised his face to her, and in the dim light she saw in his eyes common fear, aroused not by the curse of the Wanderer, but by an innate cowardice, concealed in vain.
Unable to restrain herself, she spit at the ground near his feet. Within a minute the courtyard was empty except for the body lying prostrate on the ground and the petrified woman wringing her hands.
* * *
Once already she had wept over the lifeless body of a man lying on the ground. Now it seemed to her that this terrible nightmare was fated to repeat itself. Once again she had been left alone, completely alone. The rain drizzled, and drops rolled down the severe, frozen face of Egert. She had so hoped that the curse would not hold, that it would fail in the struggle with his nobility, but the curse proved stronger than its bearer. Egert fell first.
She sat in the cold dirt, and a lingering convulsion shackled her arms, her tongue, and her head. She did not try to bring Egert back to life; she did not feel for his pulse; she did not chafe his temples: unable to squeeze out any more tears, she sat helplessly, slumping her shoulders, dropping her numb hands to the ground.
They could bring him to his knees, but it was not within their power to turn him into an animal. Cowards in their souls, they elevated themselves in their own eyes by debasing a man they considered weaker. The Wanderer did not have enough curses for all scoundrels, but Egert lay there with his scar in the dirt, and no amount of yes could abolish the horror he had already lived through.
Finally, she began to cry.
A homeless dog appeared from out of the darkness. It sniffed sympathetically at the man lying on the ground and peered into Toria’s eyes. Toria cried, lifting her face to the sky. The rain on her cheeks mixed with her tears. The dog sighed; its gaunt, ribbed sides rose and fell, and then, having scratched itself, it trotted back into the darkness.
Many years had passed since they buried her mother, and the grass had twice grown up and withered on the grave of Dinar. The rain, it seemed, would fall forever, and the eternally blooming tree on the tomb of the First Prophet would fade, and Egert would be cursed forever. Why? Why had she, Toria, forgiven him for the death of Dinar, but the Wanderer had not? Why did the curse not have inverse force; why did anyone besides herself have the right to judge Egert?
It seemed to her that his eyelashes moved slightly, or perhaps it was just the swaying of the false lamplight. She leaned forward, and Egert responded to her cautious touch; he shifted and raised his eyelashes with difficulty.
“Are you here?”
She winced. How dull and unfamiliar his voice sounded! He looked at her, and she suddenly realized that his eyes were the eyes of a hundred-year-old wise man.
“Are you crying? Don’t. Everything will be all right. I now know how to die. It’s not frightening. Everything will be all right now. Please.” He attempted to get up, and with the third attempt he sat, and she nestled close to his chest without restraining herself.
“I’m such a,” he said drearily, “such a … Why didn’t you leave? Why did you stay with me? Why do I deserve that?”
“You swore,” she whispered, “that you would cast it off.”
“Yes,” he muttered, stroking her hair. “Yes, I will cast it off. Without fail. Only, I may not be able to do it in this life, Tor. If I don’t succeed, you’ll kill me, won’t you? Death wouldn’t be terrible then. It’s awkward for me to ask this of you, but who else can I ask? Never mind, forget what I said. I’ll think of something, you’ll see. Everything will be all right now, don’t cry.”
The stray dog with the thin sides compassionately watched them from a gateway as they stumbled away.
* * *
Several hours later Toria came down with a fever.
Her bed seemed hot to her, like a tin roof glowing red from the sun. Egert was allowed in her small room for the first time. He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand in his. Without saying a single word, the dean brought in a flask of smoking, sharp-smelling potion and placed it on the side table.
Toria was lying on her back. The white pillow disappeared beneath piles of her disheveled locks, and the haggard face of his daughter, blemished by a sickly flush, again struck Luayan with the similarity it shared with a long-dead woman.
Back when he was traveling about the world, he had stopped once for a night’s lodging in a small snow-covered village. The goodwife who gave him shelter did not know any more than that he was a mage. She informed him of a misfortune: Next door the daughter of the town elder, an unearthly beauty, was dying of an unknown ailment. Then he saw his future wife for the first time. Her head wallowed in the pillow in just the same way, her black hair snaked out
over the white linens, and her face, haggard and feverish, already held the seal of her approaching death.
He cured her and left the house. Sudden happiness followed like a whirlpool in a calm and sleepy river, then the fear of losing everything, then happiness again: the birth of his daughter. Then there were five painful years, years that tossed Luayan from fever to chill, that taught him to forgive despite his pride: terrible years; his best years. He remembered them with a shudder, and would have given anything in the world to go back and live them again.
It is unlikely that she was meant to have a long life. One day, already saved by Luayan once, she passionately went out in search of her own death and found it, leaving him as mementos an unceasing sense of his own guilt and the young Toria.
Toria turned her heavy head, and her father looked into her eyes. Instantly, the dean shifted his gaze to Egert; Egert winced and thought the dean wanted him to release Toria’s hand, but he kept it pressed between his own.
Glorious Heaven, she resembles her mother too much. She is too like her mother to be happy. When he had given his blessing to her marriage with Dinar, he at least had known what it would entail: solace and security; friendly affection and shared labor in the ancient walls of the university would have firmly united his daughter and his favorite pupil. Egert had put an end to these hopes, and here Egert sat, on the edge of her bed, tormented by the gaze of the dean, realizing that he should leave, but unable to release her hand. Luayan could clearly see how well Toria’s palm nestled in his.
In his life there was nothing more precious than his daughter.
Two years ago her engagement had seemed to him a natural, inevitable part of a tranquil, measured life, but today a vague shadow hovered over the city, over the university, over these two who now held each other by the hand. Even though he was a mage, he could not determine what this threat was, but its presence could be felt more distinctly with each passing day. How should a person act today, if he did not know what might happen to him tomorrow?
Egert sighed brokenly. From the corner of his eye, Luayan saw how he tried to count her pulse, how he worried over her, how he was annoyed at him, Luayan, for his apparent inaction: If he truly were a mage, why didn’t he use his magic to cure her?
Egert was marked. He would bring misfortune to all who had the imprudence to be near him. So the Wanderer judged. But who knows what the Wanderer is or what would happen if his curse were reversed?
Toria stirred. The dean once again looked into her eyes, and it seemed to him that her eyelids lowered by a hair, as if Toria wished to nod to him.
The dean hesitated then nodded to her in answer. He delayed for a second, once more sweeping his gaze over Egert, who was enshrouded in silence, and then he stepped out of the room, firmly closing the door behind him.
The two who remained were silent for a long time. An expiring log crackled, softly and delicately, in the fireplace.
Finally, Toria smiled with obvious effort. “Your shirt is too small.”
Egert had borrowed the shirt from Fox because his own clothing was in need of washing. Gaetan’s shirt threatened to rip with every movement Egert made. His hair, freshly washed and not yet fully dry, seemed darker than usual. The light from the fireplace gleamed directly behind his back, and Toria’s burning fever created the illusion that Egert had bronzed shoulders.
Bending over her, he repeated the same questions several times; concentrating, she finally understood. “How can I help you? What do you need me to do?”
Even after they returned from the dank, raw night, she could not stop crying for a long time. She had radiated tears; she had drowned in their salty water like a dying sailor in the bosom of the sea. Egert, who had experienced a far greater shock that evening, held up better. He carried the shivering Toria for the last block before the university: her legs failed her and no longer desired to work. In her whole life only her father had ever carried her, and only in her remote childhood. She quieted and went limp, not helping Egert support her weight, but he stepped lightly as if he really were carrying a child or a small animal, as light as a feather, that had come to grief.
As he carried her, he felt each strained nerve, each quivering muscle, the beating of her heart, her fatigue and her distress. Then he pressed her more firmly to himself; he wanted to enfold her, to swath her in his own tenderness, to shelter, to warm, to protect.
The encounter with the dean, of which he was so afraid, passed without a single word. Submitting to Luayan, Egert helped Toria get into bed; a wailing old serving woman already waited nearby. The dean intently examined the guilt-ridden, tense Egert, but he never opened his mouth.
An ember prowled about the coals in the fireplace. Toria smiled faintly. The worst was far, far behind her; her present health, feverish and weakened, did not oppress her. On the contrary, she wished to dwell forever in this burning cloud, relishing her own frailty, serenity, and security.
“Tor. What can I do to help?”
Egert’s concern and anxiety pleased her. But her father … her father was always aware of everything.
The potion prepared by the dean steamed on the bedside table.
“It’s not all that serious,” whispered Toria, softly squeezing Egert’s hand. “There’s nothing to worry about. The medicine will help.”
He withdrew for a second to stoke the fireplace. The light flared up more brightly, and it seemed to Toria that Egert was now surrounded by copper tongues.
Laboriously, she sat up in her bed, holding the coverlet to her chest. “Give me the flask.”
Scooping the potion from his hands, she kneaded it into her temples for quite a long time. Soon she no longer had the strength to continue, but she did not think to summon the elderly nurse. Seeing that she was wearied, Egert offered yet again to help. Cautiously, overcoming his clumsiness, he proceeded to rub the ointment into the skin of her face and neck. The medicine smelled even more strong and bitter than wormwood warmed by the sun.
Her fever fell almost instantaneously, but instead of relief she again felt grief, and covered in sweat, she at first gave a short sob, then losing control over herself, she commenced to shake violently as tears streamed down her face.
Egert was at a loss. He considered running for the dean, but he could not release her quaking, moist hands. Egert leaned over the invalid, and his dry lips found first one tear-filled eye and then the other. Savoring the bitter taste in his mouth, he smoothed her disheveled, dark hair and drew his cheek against her cheek, scraping his scar along her skin. “Tor, look at me. Don’t cry.”
The fireplace burned evenly, and the warm potion smoked, having not yet cooled off completely. Murmuring something vague, tender, and soothing, Egert fondly stroked her neck, tracing the pattern of beauty marks with his finger, that memorable constellation that decorated the heavens of his disastrous dreams. Then he began to rub the ointment into her shoulders and slender arms, freed one after the other from beneath the coverlet. The room was warm, even sultry. Toria’s shaking gradually subsided, and she sobbed less frequently. Her breast, damp from sweat, still heaved under her thin chemise, forcing air in her lungs.
“Thank Heaven,” he whispered, feeling the sickly trembling leave her. “Thank Heaven. Everything will be all right. You really are better, aren’t you?”
Toria’s eyes seemed impenetrably black; her pupils were wide, like an animal’s at night. She stared at Egert, and her hands convulsively clenched the ends of the pulled-down coverlet. The fire burned down. It needed to be stoked again, but Egert did not have the will to leave her, not even for a second. It became dusky in the little room. Shadows danced, scattering ruddy light along the walls. Toria let out a lengthy sob and drew Egert to herself.
They curled into each other. Egert inhaled the bitter, unexpectedly pleasant odor of the medicine and held her lightly, fearing to squeeze her shoulders too intensely and thus inflict pain. Toria, blithely closing her eyes, nestled her nose into his shoulder. The fireplace died out and th
e darkness deepened.
Then his hand, tormented by its own audacity, reached under her chemise to her feverish breast, quaking from the beating of her heart.
It seemed to Toria that she was lying at the bottom of a reddish black, incandescent sea, and that tongues of flame were dancing over her head. She lost herself in the flames, refusing to think about anything else, and she ceased struggling against her mounting dizziness. Egert’s hand was transformed into a distinct living creature, which roamed along her body, and Toria experienced an ardent gratitude toward this affectionate creature, completely her own.
They dissolved into each other in a dreamy delirium. As they lay in the darkness, Egert realized suddenly that, even though he was a highly experienced lover, not once in his riotous youth had he experienced any feelings that even vaguely resembled this urgent desire to touch, to give warmth, to envelop.
The coverlet slipped off toward the wall. The gossamer fabric of her chemise became superfluous; Egert sheltered Toria from the outside world with his own body.
She abruptly awoke from her fantastic euphoria. Her physical relations with Dinar had gone no further than a few prudent kisses. Recognizing what was happening, she became frightened and froze under Egert’s caresses.
Instantly perceiving this, Egert pressed his lips to her ear. “What?”
She did not know how to explain. Distressed at her awkwardness, she artlessly ran her hand over his face. “I…”
He waited, gently placing her head on his shoulder. Fearing to insult him or surprise him, she could not find the words. She felt bashful and out of place.
Then, guessing what troubled her, he embraced her as firmly and as tenderly as he had never before embraced her or anyone else. Still full of fear and apprehension, she sobbed, grateful that there was no need to explain.
“Tor,” he whispered soothingly. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
She was indeed afraid. The night floated through the room, warmth radiated from the just-extinguished fireplace, and from Toria’s soul radiated a fondness and an almost childlike gratitude toward the man who understood everything without words.
The Scar Page 33
