Karver raised his face to her, and in the dim light she saw in his eyes common fear, aroused not by the curse of the Wanderer, but by an innate cowardice, concealed in vain.
Unable to restrain herself, she spit at the ground near his feet. Within a minute the courtyard was empty except for the body lying prostrate on the ground and the petrified woman wringing her hands.
Once already she had wept over the lifeless body of a man lying on the ground. Now it seemed to her that this terrible nightmare was fated to repeat itself. Once again she had been left alone, completely alone. The rain drizzled, and drops rolled down the severe, frozen face of Egert. She had so hoped that the curse would not hold, that it would fail in the struggle with his nobility, but the curse proved stronger than its bearer. Egert fell first.
She sat in the cold dirt, and a lingering convulsion shackled her arms, her tongue, and her head. She did not try to bring Egert back to life; she did not feel for his pulse; she did not chafe his temples: unable to squeeze out any more tears, she sat helplessly, slumping her shoulders, dropping her numb hands to the ground.
They could bring him to his knees, but it was not within their power to turn him into an animal. Cowards in their souls, they elevated themselves in their own eyes by debasing a man they considered weaker. The Wanderer did not have enough curses for all scoundrels, but Egert lay there with his scar in the dirt, and no amount of yes could abolish the horror he had already lived through.
Finally, she began to cry.
A homeless dog appeared from out of the darkness. It sniffed sympathetically at the man lying on the ground and peered into Toria’s eyes. Toria cried, lifting her face to the sky. The rain on her cheeks mixed with her tears. The dog sighed; its gaunt, ribbed sides rose and fell, and then, having scratched itself, it trotted back into the darkness.
Many years had passed since they buried her mother, and the grass had twice grown up and withered on the grave of Dinar. The rain, it seemed, would fall forever, and the eternally blooming tree on the tomb of the First Prophet would fade, and Egert would be cursed forever. Why? Why had she, Toria, forgiven him for the death of Dinar, but the Wanderer had not? Why did the curse not have inverse force; why did anyone besides herself have the right to judge Egert?
It seemed to her that his eyelashes moved slightly, or perhaps it was just the swaying of the false lamplight. She leaned forward, and Egert responded to her cautious touch; he shifted and raised his eyelashes with difficulty.
“Are you here?”
She winced. How dull and unfamiliar his voice sounded! He looked at her, and she suddenly realized that his eyes were the eyes of a hundred-year-old wise man.
“Are you crying? Don’t. Everything will be all right. I now know how to die. It’s not frightening. Everything will be all right now. Please.” He attempted to get up, and with the third attempt he sat, and she nestled close to his chest without restraining herself.
“I’m such a,” he said drearily, “such a … Why didn’t you leave? Why did you stay with me? Why do I deserve that?”
“You swore,” she whispered, “that you would cast it off.”
“Yes,” he muttered, stroking her hair. “Yes, I will cast it off. Without fail. Only, I may not be able to do it in this life, Tor. If I don’t succeed, you’ll kill me, won’t you? Death wouldn’t be terrible then. It’s awkward for me to ask this of you, but who else can I ask? Never mind, forget what I said. I’ll think of something, you’ll see. Everything will be all right now, don’t cry.”
The stray dog with the thin sides compassionately watched them from a gateway as they stumbled away.
Several hours later Toria came down with a fever.
Her bed seemed hot to her, like a tin roof glowing red from the sun. Egert was allowed in her small room for the first time. He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand in his. Without saying a single word, the dean brought in a flask of smoking, sharp-smelling potion and placed it on the side table.
Toria was lying on her back. The white pillow disappeared beneath piles of her disheveled locks, and the haggard face of his daughter, blemished by a sickly flush, again struck Luayan with the similarity it shared with a long-dead woman.
Back when he was traveling about the world, he had stopped once for a night’s lodging in a small snow-covered village. The goodwife who gave him shelter did not know any more than that he was a mage. She informed him of a misfortune: Next door the daughter of the town elder, an unearthly beauty, was dying of an unknown ailment. Then he saw his future wife for the first time. Her head wallowed in the pillow in just the same way, her black hair snaked out over the white linens, and her face, haggard and feverish, already held the seal of her approaching death.
He cured her and left the house. Sudden happiness followed like a whirlpool in a calm and sleepy river, then the fear of losing everything, then happiness again: the birth of his daughter. Then there were five painful years, years that tossed Luayan from fever to chill, that taught him to forgive despite his pride: terrible years; his best years. He remembered them with a shudder, and would have given anything in the world to go back and live them again.
It is unlikely that she was meant to have a long life. One day, already saved by Luayan once, she passionately went out in search of her own death and found it, leaving him as mementos an unceasing sense of his own guilt and the young Toria.
Toria turned her heavy head, and her father looked into her eyes. Instantly, the dean shifted his gaze to Egert; Egert winced and thought the dean wanted him to release Toria’s hand, but he kept it pressed between his own.
Glorious Heaven, she resembles her mother too much. She is too like her mother to be happy. When he had given his blessing to her marriage with Dinar, he at least had known what it would entaiclass="underline" solace and security; friendly affection and shared labor in the ancient walls of the university would have firmly united his daughter and his favorite pupil. Egert had put an end to these hopes, and here Egert sat, on the edge of her bed, tormented by the gaze of the dean, realizing that he should leave, but unable to release her hand. Luayan could clearly see how well Toria’s palm nestled in his.
In his life there was nothing more precious than his daughter.
Two years ago her engagement had seemed to him a natural, inevitable part of a tranquil, measured life, but today a vague shadow hovered over the city, over the university, over these two who now held each other by the hand. Even though he was a mage, he could not determine what this threat was, but its presence could be felt more distinctly with each passing day. How should a person act today, if he did not know what might happen to him tomorrow?
Egert sighed brokenly. From the corner of his eye, Luayan saw how he tried to count her pulse, how he worried over her, how he was annoyed at him, Luayan, for his apparent inaction: If he truly were a mage, why didn’t he use his magic to cure her?
Egert was marked. He would bring misfortune to all who had the imprudence to be near him. So the Wanderer judged. But who knows what the Wanderer is or what would happen if his curse were reversed?
Toria stirred. The dean once again looked into her eyes, and it seemed to him that her eyelids lowered by a hair, as if Toria wished to nod to him.
The dean hesitated then nodded to her in answer. He delayed for a second, once more sweeping his gaze over Egert, who was enshrouded in silence, and then he stepped out of the room, firmly closing the door behind him.