Hot wax dripped on his hands, but he did not feel it. The source of the pain was in front of him, located in the library.
A light shone up from under the massive doors. Egert wanted to knock, but both his hands were occupied so he softly scraped the toe of his boot against the door. The sound of the dean’s surprised “Yes?” carried from beyond.
Egert tried to grab the brass handle without letting go of his burning candles. It is possible that his efforts might have been crowned with success, but then the door opened in front of him, and in its opening stood Dean Luayan. He was not the source of the pain: it was coming from someone in the twilight of the book-filled hall.
“It is I,” said Egert, although the dean surely recognized him and would not confuse him with anyone else. “It is I…” He faltered, not knowing what else to say.
The dean stepped back slowly, inviting Egert to enter.
Toria, as usual, was sitting on the edge of a table, and her empty book cart was leaning against her knee like a frightened dog. Egert had not seen Toria since the day he brought the dean Dinar’s book and was smacked by the heavy tome in the face. Now her eyes were shadowed in darkness. Egert could not see if her gaze was fastened on him, but the sensation emanating from the girl, the sensation of blunt suffering, became stronger, as if the very sight of Egert aroused in her a new episode of pain.
“Yes, Soll?” asked the dean dryly.
Egert suddenly realized that they had been talking about him, though he did not know where such certainty came from. “I came to ask,” he said dully, “about broken curses, about curses that have been lifted. Does it depend … does the possibility of deliverance depend on … does it depend on the extent to which the person is guilty?”
Toria slowly turned toward her father, but she did not get up from the table and she did not say a word.
Having exchanged glances with his daughter, the dean frowned. “What is it you don’t understand?”
Toria—her left temple began to ache even more, so much so that Egert wanted to press his hand to his own head—said blandly and levelly into the darkness, “Undoubtedly, Master Soll wishes to find out if he, as an innocent sufferer, has any advantage.”
Egert’s heart collapsed like a baited dog. Barely moving his lips he whispered, also into space, “No, I…”
There were no words; Toria sat as still as a statue, not betraying her aching pain the slightest bit.
“I’ll leave now,” said Egert softly, “and you’ll get better. I only … Forgive me.”
He turned and walked toward the door. Behind him, Toria let out a faltering breath and at that moment a spasm of pain seized her, such a spasm that Egert stumbled.
The dean also felt that something was wrong. Quickly glancing at his daughter, he shifted his glance, cool and distrustful, to Egert. “What is wrong with you, Egert?”
Egert leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Can’t you see? She’s in pain. How can you not feel it? How can you tolerate it, that she—” He took a breath. Father and daughter were staring at him without blinking; the jaws of the spasm unclenched incrementally, and Egert felt a wave of relief flow over Toria.
“You should put, I mean, it might help if you put a cold cloth on your forehead,” he whispered. “I’m already leaving. I know that I am guilty; I know that I am a murderer. What was done to me, it was only what I deserve. Perhaps—” He shivered. “—perhaps the Wanderer will not take pity on me, will not remove the scar. Would that … would that make it easier on you?”
Even in the half dark of the gloomy library it was apparent how large and dark her eyes had become.
“Soll?” asked the dean briskly.
Toria finally did what Egert had long wanted to do: she pressed her palm to her temple.
“I am leaving the university,” Egert said, barely audibly. “I am useless here and seeing me hurts her. I do understand.” He stepped through the door and walked away down the corridor. Only then did he notice that the candles, convulsively clutched in his fists, had dripped wax all over his clothes and shoes, and had burned the palms of his hands.
“Soll!” the dean called out behind him.
He did not want to turn around, but the dean grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted it back, peering into Egert’s exhausted face. There was such intensity and aggression in his gaze that Egert became terrified.
“Oh, just let him go,” Toria requested softly. She was standing in the doorway and her soul seemed somewhat easier: perhaps because her headache had abated.
Gripping Egert by his elbow, the dean marched him back to the library and forcefully sat him down in a creaking chair. Only then did he turn to Toria. “Why didn’t you take a cure immediately?”
“I thought I could manage,” she answered distantly.
“And now?”
“Now, it’s better.”
The dean looked searchingly at Egert. “Well, Soll? Is it better? Is it true?”
“It’s true,” he answered, barely moving his lips. His candles had extinguished; prying his fingers apart with difficulty, he let the stubs fall to the floor. Velvety moths pivoted around the ceiling lamps with soft rustles, and the far-off cry of the night watch echoed through the dark window facing the square.
“How long has this been going on?” asked the dean casually, as if he did not care about the answer.
“It’s not constant,” explained Egert, gazing at the moths. “It happened once before, and today … today was the second time. I have no control over it. Can I go now?”
“Toria,” asked the dean with a sigh. “Do you have any questions for Master Soll?”
She remained silent. As he left, Egert twisted his head around to look at her and caught her gaze, filled with blank astonishment, following him.
Summer in the city choked on hot dust, and in the course of one long, hot day, the lemonade hawkers earned more than they usually did in a week. People on the streets sizzled in the heat, and even the Tower of Lash emitted its ritual howl less frequently than usual. Hawkers erected flaxen awnings with long silk tassels over their heads: it seemed like enormous, many-colored jellyfish were oozing across the square. In the university’s great building dust whirled, content to settle everywhere without the constant disturbance of clopping feet; it gleamed in shafts of sunlight and covered the rostrum in a thin layer; it enveloped the benches, the windowsills, the statues of scholars, and the mosaic floors. Life glimmered only in servants’ quarters; in the dean’s study, where he was working hard on the biographies of archmages; in the room of his daughter; and in the annex, where the auditor Egert Soll lived in complete solitude.
The old washerwoman, who had abandoned her cleaning for the time being, now prepared only dinner; Toria took it upon herself to cook breakfast and supper for herself and her father. Knowing full well that the dean, absorbed in his work, might eat nothing more in the course of a day than a few sunflower seeds, Toria went out into the city every day to purchase food. She brought the food to his study and paid close attention so that every last crumb was, in the end, eaten.
Egert almost never left his room. Sitting by the window, he often saw Toria crossing the university courtyard with a basket on her arm. After thunderstorms, which then once again gave way to severe heat, a broad puddle lingered for a while on the path through the courtyard. One day, as she made her way home from the bazaar, Toria came across a sparrow that was bathing in this puddle.