All right, whispered Egert to himself, and he felt better; he even began to consider in earnest how he could best accomplish the task that had been imposed on him, but then the abrupt realization of his own baseness drove him to despair. Cringing on the windowsill, he would not answer Fox’s worried questions or look into those honest honey-colored eyes.
Fox now regarded Egert with greater respect, not only for Egert’s rare ability in tossing knives, but also for the books he was reading, Anatomy and The Philosophy, which had been borrowed, according to Egert, from the dean himself. Gaetan trained himself to leave Egert in peace when he saw that his roommate desired solitude, but one evening, having blown out the candle, Fox ventured to ask his odd roommate a question.
“Listen, Egert. Who are you, actually?”
Egert, who had been drowsily recollecting his home and his parents, woke up fully. “What are you talking about?”
Fox’s bed creaked. “Well … You’re all quiet and shy, only I think I need to hide any knives from you or else who knows what might happen.”
“Have no fear,” Egert sneered bitterly.
Fox continued sullenly, “Of course. But if I had such a handsome face as you do, all the girls in the city would be spoiled. They run after you like they’re on a leash, but you never so much as glance at them. You know you could, with them, I mean … Never mind.”
Egert sneered again.
Fox came up with a new question. “Who was it that slashed your face?”
Egert sighed. He asked in a whisper, “Listen, the Day of Jubilation, is that soon?”
Fox wondered at this question in the darkness. After a pause, he answered, “Another month. Why?”
A month. A month remained until the designated time. Egert firmly believed that he would not become a scoundrel and informer if he could just hold out until the meeting with the Wanderer. Now he was a slave to the curse, but the real, free Egert would not be horrified either by direct threats or by promises of impending doom. The Order of Lash would lose all power over him, and it would be so pleasant to say to Fagirra’s face: Get lost, look for your spies elsewhere! And Karver. And returning to Kavarren, seeing his father. And then—Egert was almost decided on this—then he would come back to the university and ask the dean to admit him … possibly … But that would be later. First, the Wanderer, and the meeting that would take place in a month.
Egert simply barred from his mind the thought of what would happen if the meeting did not take place or if the Wanderer refused to deliver him from the curse.
For several nights in a row, Toria dreamed unusually vivid, wondrous dreams.
Once she dreamed that she was standing on the deck of a galleon. She had often seen such ships in engravings but never once in real life. All around lay the clean, blue surface of the sea, the spherical vault of the sky curved over her head, her father stood next to her, and in his hand, for some reason, was a birdcage. A small bird, smaller than a sparrow, hovered in the cage. Toria’s soul felt strangely light and she laughed in her sleep. But a mass of clouds, black as an ashtray, was gathering on the distant horizon, and the captain, for there was a captain on the ship, said with a grin, “There will be a storm, but we need not fear it.”
And Toria was not afraid. Nevertheless, the clouds drew near far faster than they should, and the captain sensed that something was wrong only when it was too late: in the sky over the ship hung an owl of vast proportions, and it was simultaneously a bird and a cloud, only such a cloud as has never existed. Its eyes, two round saucers, glowed with a white, turbulent fire, and its wings, when extended, shut out the sky. The captain and the crew cried out in horror, and then Toria’s father, Dean Luayan, flung open the door of the birdcage he held in his hand.
The bird, light, smaller than a sparrow, flitted free from the cage; it soared up impetuously and began to grow and grow and turn black and roll around within the cloud. When it equaled the owl hovering in the sky, there was a battle not for life, but for death—only, who won this battle, Toria was not allowed to learn, for she awoke.
Speculating on what it might mean, Toria walked into the city: the evening before, her father had asked her to stop by the apothecary. Returning, she came upon two girls who were standing by the front entrance, wearing compelling bonnets adorned with rose-red and jade-green flowers. The girls, blushing and nudging each other, turned to her with a question: Does there live here … that is, study here … a very tall boy, blond, with a scar?
Toria was taken aback. The girls, becoming more agitated, explained: They met a little while ago at a certain place and agreed to meet again but, although the students came into the city fairly often—This boy, he’s so blond. Do you know him?—he hasn’t shown his face in town for a few weeks now.… Perhaps he’s ill?
At first Toria wanted to laugh, then she changed her mind and decided to be livid; then, recollecting herself, she wondered why she should have such a reaction. What business did she have with Soll’s intimate affections?
After dryly explaining to the girls that the “blond with the scar” was well and would certainly soon appear “at a certain place,” Toria continued on her way; from behind her rushed the words: Perhaps she could tell this boy that Ora and Rosalind were looking for him?
Toria would have been quite shocked if, the evening before, someone had told her that she would recall this unlooked-for encounter often, but she did recall it, feeling annoyed and astonished at her own idiocy. Likely, she was irritated by Egert Soll’s choice: such vulgar, trashy girls! However, the students always were somewhat indiscriminate. But, Soll! Glorious Heaven, why was Soll supposed to be any better or worse than the others?
Running into him the next day, Toria could not restrain herself from pricking him. “By the way, your lady friends were looking for you. It seems you completely forgot about them, Soll.”
For a long moment he looked at her, uncomprehending; she had time to see that his eyelids were red and his eyes were tired, as happens after a long night of reading. “Who?” he finally asked.
Toria searched her memory. “Ora and Rosalind. What taste you have, Soll!”
“I don’t know who they are,” he said indifferently. “Are you sure that they asked for me specifically?”
Toria again could not restrain herself. “And who else do we have here who is ‘tall, blond, with a scar’?”
Egert smiled bitterly, touching his cheek with his hand as was his wont; for some reason Toria became embarrassed. Muttering something indistinct, she rushed off.
A little while later she saw him in a group of students, led by the redheaded Gaetan; Egert Soll stood head and shoulders above all his companions. The group was, of course, heading out into the city; the students were making a joyful racket. Soll was silent, holding himself aloof, but the regard that the other students showed toward him was not concealed from Toria’s eyes. Next to Soll they all seemed a bit gawky, a bit rustic, a bit simple, while Soll, in whose every movement danced an instinctual, martial grace, seemed like a pedigreed horse lost in a herd of pleasant, merrily stomping mules.
With displeasure, Toria caught herself feeling something akin to interest. Of course Ora and Rosalind were inspired by him, and indeed how many more young fillies were champing at the bit, desiring to get their hands on such a pretty man?
A few days later, Egert unexpectedly received a package from Kavarren. The wheezing messenger brought a voluminous parcel, covered in wax seals, and a small, crumpled letter addressed to Egert into the university chancellery. The messenger would not leave until he received a silver coin for his troubles. The sack was full of home-cooked food and the letter, written on yellowing stationery, smelled of heartfelt, bitter tears.