“Hey,” Fox asked drunkenly, “did you decide to sleep under the bed?”
Egert straightened up, holding a book in his hands.
“Well, that’s good,” Fox acceded weakly, untying his shoe. “That’s probably the lad’s, the one who lived here before. Did you find the clasp?”
Egert placed the candle on the table, put his discovery next to it, wiped a coat of dust off it with his palm, and opened it, trying to spread out the pages, some of which were stuck together.
The book was a history of battles and the commanders who fought them. Turning a few pages, Egert came across a firm paper square. One side of it was empty, with only a single ink spot in the corner, but the other side …
Egert stared at the drawing for a few seconds, suddenly feeling sober, as if he had been tossed into an ice-cold lake. Toria gazed up at him from the drawing.
It was a striking likeness; the artist, slightly awkward and inexperienced, but certainly talented, had captured the most important thing: He had managed to impart the expression of her eyes, that tranquil, slightly detached amiability with which Toria had looked at Egert the first time they met. The beauty marks on her neck were drawn with impeccable accuracy, as was the daring curve of her eyelashes. Her soft lips seemed just about to break into a smile.
Fox hiccuped and dropped his other shoe on the floor. “What’s that?”
Tearing his gaze away with effort, Egert turned the drawing over, covering it with his palm so that it would be his secret, so that Fox would not know. A disturbing thought came to him, and he turned back to the book. He opened the first page, searching for a sign of the owner.
There were only two letters: D.D.
Egert felt suddenly feverish. “Gaetan,” he asked in a whisper, trying to speak calmly, “who lived here before me, Gaetan?”
Fox was silent for a second. He leisurely stretched himself out on his bed. “As far as I know, only one boy lived here before you. He was a good lad; Dinar was his name. In truth, though, I never really got the chance to know him: he went away somewhere and was killed.”
“Who killed him?” asked Egert in spite of himself.
“How would I know?” snorted Fox. “Some asshole killed him, but I don’t know where or how. Listen; don’t stand there like a pillar, put out the light, yeah?”
Egert blew out the candle and stood motionless in the dark for a few moments.
“I tell you,” sleepily muttered Fox, “he must have been a really solid fellow, otherwise Toria—you know, Toria, the dean’s daughter—she wouldn’t have decided to marry him, if he wasn’t. They say she was about to; the wedding was even set. But then—”
“He lived here?” whispered Egert through unruly lips. “Here, in this room? And he slept in this bed?”
Fox shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable. “Oh, don’t get all scared. His spirit isn’t going to appear. He wasn’t the kind of man who would terrorize his fellow students at night. I tell you, he was a good guy. Go to sleep.” Fox mumbled something else, but the words were indecipherable, and soon his muttering gave way to measured breathing.
Egert had to force himself to get undressed and climb into bed, where, as usual, he pulled the blanket up over his head. Thus he spent the whole night, clenching his eyes shut against the dark, and stopping his ears against the utter silence.
Every morning upon waking up, Dinar Darran had looked up and seen this arched ceiling with the two cracks that met in the corner. The pattern made by the cracks looked like a wide-open eye, and every morning this comparison occurred to Egert. But perhaps Dinar saw something else?
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.