The Scar (22 page)

The dean paused, as if offering Egert the chance to discern some latent meaning in his words. Egert clutched the wooden armrests with his fingers.

“Thus it happened,” continued the dean, “that in his overconfidence and hubris he transgressed the line that separates a trifle from treachery, and he grievously outraged his friends. For his transgression he suffered what might be considered an excessively harsh punishment: he was deprived of the appearance of a man for three years and parted from his gift of magic for all time. But that gift had been a part of his soul, his consciousness, his individuality. And so, abased and renounced, bereft of everything he held dear, he set out on the path of experience.”

The dean fell silent, as though he were waiting for Egert to take up the tale and finish it for him, but Egert said nothing, trying to understand what connection the dean’s story had to his own destiny.

The dean gave a small, ironic smile. “Yes, Egert, the path of experience. That was his path, and he walked it to its end. You also stand on a similar path, Soll, but your route is different, and no one knows what awaits you at its end. But you must realize that the man I just told you about never killed anyone.”

It felt as if a hot iron pierced Egert and swept through his body; however, there was not a shadow of blame or reproach in the dean’s tranquil voice. The azure sky in the gleaming gap of the window turned black for a second, and a thought slipped through the abyss of his consciousness: That’s it, the most important thing; everything else pales in comparison to that … killing. Perhaps the time had come to settle accounts; after all, Toria was the dean’s daughter and Dinar would have been his son-in-law.

“But,” he spat out, “I really didn’t want to. It was an honorable duel. I didn’t mean to kill him, Dean Luayan. Before all this…”

He faltered, thinking better of what he’d been about to say, but the mage glanced at him, the question in his eyes, and Egert found it necessary to continue.

“I’ve killed before in duels. Twice, both times fairly. All the people, who died by my sword, they all had kinsmen and friends, but even their kin agreed that death during a duel is not a disgrace and that those who survive aren’t murderers.”

The dean said nothing. He stood up as if thinking, and walked along the shelves of books, all the while tracing his fingers along their frayed spines. Drawing his head down into his shoulders, Egert watched him, waiting for whatever might happen next: lightning from the dean’s outstretched hand or an incantation that would turn him into a frog.

The mage finally turned round. He asked severely, “Imagine that you do finally meet the Wanderer, Soll. What will you say to him? The very same words that I just heard?”

Egert lowered his head even more. He admitted sincerely, “I don’t know what I would say to him. I had hoped that you might teach me. But…”

He ceased talking because any words he might say would devolve into despicable, inane blather. He would have liked to say that he knew very well that the dean had reason to despise the killer of the student named Dinar, and that it was conceivable that the mercy he had shown to Egert was only a respite before the inevitable punishment. He would have liked to explain that he was sensible to the fact that the father of Toria was in no way obliged to help him in his dealings with the Wanderer; quite the opposite: the dean had a right to regard the curse of cowardice as appropriate. It was only just that Egert should carry the scar on his face until the end of his days. And, finally, Egert would have liked to confess how intensely, albeit hopelessly, he nonetheless reckoned on the dean’s help.

He would have liked to say all of this, but his tongue lay in his mouth, sluggish and lacking the will to speak, like a lifeless fish.

The dean walked over to the desk and threw open the lid of a massive writing set. Egert glimpsed a grotesquely shaped inkwell, a sand box with a bronze bead on the lid, a pile of many-colored quills, and a pair of penknives.

The dean smiled ironically. “It was not mere chance that caused me to talk about the mage who was deprived of his gift. It is possible, Egert, that knowledge of his fate may help you in some way. But it is also possible that it may not.” The dean took an especially long quill out of the pile, inspected it lovingly, and started sharpening it with one of the penknives. “Half a century ago, Egert, I was a young boy, living in the foothills. My mother, my father, and all my kin perished during the Black Plague, and my teacher, Orlan, became the most important man in my life. His small house clung to the side of a cliff like a bird’s nest, and I was a chick in that nest. But then one day my teacher looked into the Mirror of Waters. You see, Egert, a mage who has attained a certain level of power can gather the water from five different springs and perform a conjuration over it, creating the Mirror of Waters, in which he may see that which is hidden from mere sight. My teacher looked into the Mirror, and then he died: his heart burst. I have never been able to discover what or who he saw then. I found myself alone, just thirteen years old. Having buried Orlan according to custom, I did not rush to seek a new teacher, regardless of how young I was. And after some time had passed, I too took it upon myself to create the Mirror of Waters. The Mirror remained dark for a long time, and I was ready to despair, when the surface of the water brightened and I saw—” The dean laid the sharpened quill to the side and took up a new one. “—I saw a man, unknown to me, who stood in front of the immense, wrought iron Doors. The vision lasted only a few moments, but I had time to discern that the rusty bar was partially removed. Egert, have you ever heard of the Doors of Creation?”

The dean paused and looked at Egert inquiringly. Fidgeting in the armchair, Egert felt even more foolish than usual. Shrugging his shoulders, the dean smiled.

“You don’t know why I am telling you all of this. It is possible, Egert, that it may be in vain; it is possible that there is no point. But if you wish to speak to the Wanderer … Do you really still wish to speak with him?”

The outer door creaked slightly, but to Egert this sound seemed as deafening as a barrage of cannon fire. Toria walked into the study.

Egert cowered in his armchair, but the girl, who had merely paused at the sight of her father’s visitor, approached the desk as if it were of no concern and placed a small tray with a slice of bread and a glass of milk on it. Then, exchanging glances with her father, she slowly sat on the edge of the desk, dangling her narrow-tipped slippers over the floor.

“I think I’ve managed to completely confuse Master Soll with my stories,” the dean informed his daughter. Toria smiled sourly.

The dean once again found his tongue, still addressing himself to Egert, who could no longer take in a single word. All he could do was await that blessed moment when it would finally be possible for him to stand up and leave. He never even looked at Toria, but all the same his skin crawled from the indifferent glances that she bestowed upon him from time to time.

Several minutes passed before Egert was able to once again understand what it was the dean had been saying in the interim.

“This is the labor of my life, Soll, the primary text. While it is simply titled
A History of Mages,
it is arguable that before me there has never been another who had the unique ability to link together all that we know about the archmages of the past. Many of them exist only in legend, some lived not all that long ago, and some are still alive. I was the student of Orlan—a large chapter is devoted to him—and I knew Lart Legiar personally. These names may mean nothing to you, Soll, but any mage, even the most mediocre, is filled with reverence at the very mention of them.”

Egert’s head felt as though it were gradually being filled with lead. The room slowly started spinning around him as if around an axis. Only the pale face of Toria, like an elegant alabaster mask, remained stationary.

“I understand that this is difficult for you, Soll.” The dean had once again sat in the wooden armchair, and meeting his eyes, Egert’s head cleared instantly, as if he had been plunged into icy water. The dean was staring at Egert, as if he could pin him down with his eyes. “I understand. But the path of experience is not easy, Soll. No one can know how your path will end, but I will help you as long as I can manage. Toria—” He turned smoothly toward his daughter. “—that book, the history of curses, is it here or in the library?”

Without saying a word, Toria drew a small leather-bound booklet, the corners of which were reinforced with bronze plates, from a shelf.

“
On Curses
?” she asked in a prosaic tone. “Here it is.”

The dean took the book carefully, brushed dust from it with his palm, opened it, and blew on the pages, expelling any remaining motes of dust.

“Here you are, Soll. I am lending you this book in the hope that it will help you to understand more profoundly, to perceive what exactly it was that happened to you. Take your time. You can have it for as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” said Egert in a voice that was wooden and somehow not his own.

There once lived a man, and he was harsh and greedy. One day, during a severe frost, a woman with a child at her breast knocked at the door of his house. He thought, “Why is this beggar-woman at my hearth?” He did not let her in. There was a snowstorm, and as she froze in a snowdrift with her dead child in her arms, the woman said one word, terrible to human ears. And that man was cursed: nevermore was he able to light a fire. Whether it was the tiniest spark or a conflagration, a bonfire or a flame to light his pipe, every flame smoked and expired as soon as he came near it. He became cold and faded, like a flame in a downpour, and he could not warm himself. He could not warm himself, and, dying, he whispered, “So cold…”

Egert cringed as if from a chill, breathed a sigh, and turned the page.

In a certain village there was a pestilence, and many people died. Having heard of the misfortune, a shaman came to the village; he was young, but experienced and skillful. Treating people with herbs, he went from house to house, and the illness should have afflicted him as well, but fortunately it did not touch him. The people were cured. Then they asked themselves, “Whence came this power, bestowed upon the young healer? Whence came this strange vigor in his hands and in his herbs? Why did the pestilence spare him?” The people were afraid of the unknown power and they destroyed the herbalist, hoping to destroy his power with him. However, it happened that after this crime, a reckoning followed: after only a short amount of time the village was deserted, and not a soul knew where the people had mislaid themselves. The sages say that they were cursed, that they were all cursed, both the graybeards and the babes, and that they drudge in unknown abysses until the man appears and removes the curse.

The book was old and every yellowed page contained tales of matters that were obscure and ghastly. It was difficult for Egert to restrain the nervous chill that ran through him as he read, but all the same he kept reading, as if his eyes were riveted to the letters, black as the back of a beetle.

It happened once that three men stopped a traveler on the road. But he was poor, and the three did not receive any spoils. Then, overcome by spite, they beat him mercilessly. On the brink of death, he said to them, “I was meek and good, and I caused you no evil. Why have you served me thus? I curse and anathematize you: May the earth never again bear you up!”

The traveler died, and as soon as his eyes closed the earth went out from under the feet of the brigands.

Terror-stricken, they tried to run, but with each step the once firm earth below them yawned ever wider and grasped at their feet, and when they were already up to their knees in earth they cried out for mercy. But the curse had been spoken and the lips of he who had cursed them would remain cold and silent forevermore. The earth would not support the highwaymen. It no longer wished to carry them, and they disappeared up to their waists, and then up to their chests, and then the grass cut short their screaming mouths forever, and only black pits remaining in the ground, and indeed they …

Egert did not read to the end: a dreary sound carried in from the unseen square, the voice of the Tower of the Order of Lash. Egert took a shuddering breath and turned the page.

A wizard, a decrepit and malicious old man, was passing by a village. It happened that he tripped over a rock lying in the road. He fell and broke his old bones. The sorcerer cried out and cursed the rock: “Henceforth, no people shall settle in this place!” The rock groaned grievously, as if it was in excruciating pain, and daredevils who chose to come close to the place saw black blood trickling from a crevice in drops.

Egert removed his eyes from the book. A procession of strange and aggrieving stories had been passing before his eyes for the past several days, and any sane man would consider most of these stories to be fairy tales; any sane man, but not the man who wore a slanting scar on his cheek.

There once was a man who married a beautiful girl and loved her with his entire soul. But his young wife was far too pretty, and an image of her betrayal appeared to the man in a dream. Then, fraught with fear and wrath, he spoke words that turned into a curse, “Let any other man be ruined, upon whom her affectionate, favorable gaze falls even once, and let him die a painful death!”

But his young wife remained faithful to him with all her heart and soul, and not a single time did she gaze with tenderness at another man. The years went by, and the couple lived in prosperity and happiness, and their children grew. And so their eldest son matured; he turned from a boy into a youth. And one day, inflamed by his first love, he danced home at dawn. His mother, standing by the porch, gazed at her son and saw his sparkling eyes and his wide shoulders; she saw the lithesome strength and youthful fervor of her son, and her gaze became full of pride, favor, and affection.