About five steps away from him stood a gray-haired man doused in the glow of the streetlamp. His face was elderly, beardless, and covered in a network of wrinkles; it seemed impenetrable, like a mask. The man stood motionless and examined Egert with an inscrutable expression in his tranquil, narrowed eyes.
Egert caught his breath: it was instantly clear to him that this stranger would not insult him or beat him, but at the same time in the depths of his soul rumbled a completely different anxiety, not at all like his usual terror. He wanted this witness of his shame and desperation to disappear as quickly as possible into the night. Trying to convey the fact that the presence of this other man was unwelcome, Egert turned his back on him.
Another minute passed. The intent gaze did not leave Egert in peace for a second.
Egert felt tormented, like he was on a burning stove. Finally, his patience dried up and he decided to speak. “I…”
He fell silent, unable to find the words. The strange man apparently had no thought to help him get the words out.
“You…” Egert spoke again, and in that moment he had an idea, a simple and brilliant idea. “You,” he said more firmly. “You might be able to help me.”
The stranger blinked. He politely asked, “Help?”
Getting up with great difficulty, Egert walked over to the well and once again took the cobblestone in his hand. “You could push me. Just a little push. There. Into the water.”
The nighttime passerby did not answer, so Egert added quickly, “This is happening, you know? I really need to—I really need you to help me, please.”
The stranger transferred his intent gaze from the cobblestone to Egert’s face, then to the well, and once again to Egert.
“I really need help,” pleaded Egert. “It’s necessary. I can’t do anything else. But I can’t do it myself. Please.”
“I really don’t think I can help you,” uttered the stranger slowly.
Hope, which had flared up in Egert’s soul, extinguished. “Then…,” he said quietly. “Then please leave. I have to try again.”
The stranger shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think that you’ll succeed in this, Egert.”
Egert dropped the cobblestone. Scarcely able to swallow his sticky saliva, he stared at the stranger in horror.
“You are indeed Egert Soll; I’m not mistaken, am I?” asked the strange man as if nothing was the matter.
Egert could have sworn that he had never met this man before.
As if reading his mind, the stranger smiled briefly. “My name is Luayan. I am Dean Luayan from the university.”
Egert was silent; before his eyes flashed an image of the imposing building and the girl in a high window.
The dean, meanwhile, leisurely walked over to the well and settled himself on its edge as informally as a child. “Well then, let’s have a talk, Egert.”
“How do you know my name?” Egert forced the words out. In the light of the streetlamp the white teeth of the dean flashed; he smiled and shook his head, as if shocked at the naïveté of the question. And then, shivering at his sudden guess, Egert asked through numbed lips, “Are you a wizard?”
“I am a mage,” corrected the dean, “a mage and a teacher. And you, Egert, who are you?”
Without blinking, Egert stared at the tranquil, inscrutable face. He had come to this city to meet this mage, and he had hoped for and feared this meeting. But the appearance of Toria, high up in that window, had muddled and changed everything. He had surrendered hope; he had forgotten all about it, and now here he was, speechless, standing in front of a graying man in dark, strangely cut clothes, standing in front of the witness, whether intentional or accidental, of his pitiful attempts at suicide, and his tongue was stuck on the roof of his mouth: How could he possibly find an answer to the dean’s remorseless question?
The dean sighed. “Well, Egert? I know something about who you were. But now?”
“Now.” Egert could not hear himself and so began anew. “Now I want to die.”
The dean smiled somewhat scornfully, it seemed to Egert. “There is no way, Egert. The man who marked you with that scar does not leave loopholes.”
Egert’s shaking hand touched the scar on his cheek.
The dean gently rose up: he was only a hairsbreadth shorter than Egert, who was quite tall. “Do you know what that scar signifies, Egert?”
He came close, so close in fact that Egert recoiled; the dean screwed up his face peevishly.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Firm fingers carefully grasped Egert by his chin and turned his head so that his scarred cheek was exposed to the light from the streetlamp. The silence lasted for a few lingering seconds; finally the dean let go of Egert’s chin, sighed as if preoccupied, returned to the well, and once again sat down on the stonework.
Egert stood there, more dead than alive. His interlocutor rubbed his temples, looked to the side, and said, “A curse has been laid upon you, Egert, a serious, frightful curse. The scar is but the imprint of it, the mark, the symbol. Only one man can leave such a reminder of himself, but as I know very well, he very rarely condescends to interfere in the business of others. You must have seriously annoyed him, eh, Egert?”
“Who?” whispered Egert, not understanding even half of what the dean had just said.
The dean sighed again: wearily, patiently. “Do you remember the man who wounded you?”
Egert stood, staring at the ground; finally he shivered and raised his head. “A curse?”
The dean twitched the corner of his mouth. “You really didn’t guess?”
Egert remembered the old hermit and the village wise woman, who had been so horrified when she examined Egert’s scar more closely.
“I guessed,” he murmured, lowering his eyes yet again.
The lamplight flickered in a gust of wind.
“I guessed,” repeated Egert. “He was old, or so he seemed. He fought like … Now I understand. Was he a wizard? I mean, was he also a mage?”
“Just how did you annoy him, Egert?” asked the dean, knitting his brows together.
Egert soundlessly moved his lips: that final duel, that fight with the grizzled boarder of the Noble Sword flashed before his eyes.
“No,” he said finally. “I—there’s no way. I didn’t want to duel, he himself…”
The dean leaned forward. “Understand this, Egert: This man does not bother himself with trifles. You did something that, in his opinion, was worthy of a grave punishment. I am now asking you, what was it?”
Egert could not speak. Memories invaded him all at once, without distinction, descending upon him, deafening him with the ring of steel, the laugh of Karver, the din of the crowd, the voice of Toria screaming “Dinar!”
The grizzled stranger had been there. Oh yes, he had been there, and as he was leaving he had graced Egert with a long look.
Later, at the tavern by the gates, what was it that strange man said? Egert broke out into sweat; he remembered the words of the stranger quite distinctly, as if they had just been spoken: I drink to Lieutenant Soll, the embodiment of cowardice, hiding behind a mask of valor.
“Who is he?” Egert asked desolately. The dean remained silent; Egert raised his head and understood that he was waiting for an answer to the question he had already asked twice.
“I killed a man, in a duel,” said Egert with just as much desolation in his voice. “The duel was fought according to the rules.”
“Is that all?” asked the dean dryly.
Egert winced painfully. “It was all so haphazard and stupid. That lad, he didn’t even carry a sword. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want it to happen that way.”