… What hot stones, what turbulent grass, and in my ears rings the sound of the cicada, but the water proves sweet, sweet and thick, like honey, and it flows down my chin, down my chest, down my legs, spilling onto the parched earth. And the sun is at its zenith … The sun.
That evening, when all those living in the city timidly began to move about, peering from their shelters and asking themselves if this indulgence would last; when the sick began to feel so much better that their loving attendants with haggard eyes finally let loose their tears; when dogs appeared from out of nowhere; when ravens beat their wings over the streets, belatedly gathering to their feast; then Egert and Toria found the dean.
Luayan lay on the summit of the unearthed burial mound, as if covering it with his body. Egert looked once at his face, and would not let Toria even glance at it.
9
But on the next day the cold returned, and it was necessary to hurry before the earth froze over.
Egert and Toria buried Luayan on a hill not far from the tomb of the First Prophet. Egert wanted to put the gold medallion in with him, but Toria, who had in the course of one day forgotten how to cry, stopped him: leaving the Amulet in his grave would afflict that grave. The two of them performed all the necessary rites over the body, and no one interfered with them, even though the mayor, who turned up out of the blue, had strictly ordered that all the victims of the Plague be buried in the same place, in the unearthed burial mound.
Toria, who did not have the strength to credit her loss, could not enter her father’s study. Egert went in. Among the open books and burnt-out candles only the dean’s manuscript appeared to be in full order: his heavy, voluminous, unfinished manuscript, to which had been appended a legible catalog of prepared sections, fragments, and drafts, and a detailed plan of the as-yet-unwritten chapters. There were no letters, no notes, only the manuscript, as if it was his last will and testament, and the Amulet of the Prophet, as if it was a bequest.
Hearing Egert enumerate the contents of his study, Toria tried to smile. “He did become an archmage, didn’t he? In this manuscript, there should now be a chapter on him. Don’t you think? We must finish it.”
And immediately, without transition, she said, “Egert, promise me you’ll never die.”
The city did not believe its good fortune right away. Grave-digging teams hastily committed the dead to the earth, while the afflicted started to recover. The casualties were enormous, but it turned out that a great many had been spared as well. Still sheltering in their recesses, they anxiously repeated variations of a single question to one another: What about time, had it ended or not?
A day passed without any new victims, then another day, then another; people who were fatally ill began to get to their feet, and for an entire week not one person died in the city. Mountains of earth, brought to the disturbed hill, separated the living from the dead, and on that day it became taller, full of hundreds of bodies. The streets, freed from corpses, remained desolate and frightening, but the surviving townspeople already assumed that the Plague had finally passed.
Not yet had all of the deceased been transported from deserted houses and alleyways into the trench intended for them, when the city broke out into explosions of fireworks.
Not one of those who then spilled out onto the streets and squares had ever seen a festival like it. Strangers embraced and cried on each other’s shoulders; they cried from the joy of suddenly granted life, such sweet life, to which many of them had already said their good-byes. Yesterday they were the dead, but today they were drunk on the awareness that tomorrow would bring a new day, and beyond that there would be another one, and spring would come, and children would be born. Laughing women in bedraggled clothing joyfully bestowed their favors on those whom they loved, and they loved everyone, even the cripples and the beggars and the tramps, and the guards, youths, and elders. Fourteen-year-old boys became men right on the street, but then lost their happy ladies as they disappeared into the crowd, shrieking with laughter. The frantic, insane festival of people driven mad with joy led to a few fatalities—someone drowned in a canal, someone was trampled by the crowd—but the deaths passed unheeded because on that day in the streets of the city, the people believed in eternal life.
The Tower of Lash indifferently beheld the frantic dancing of the survivors. As before, its doors and walls were sealed tight, and not a single wisp of smoke rose over the gabled roof. The hysterical merrymaking gradually abated, and then whispers began to crawl throughout the city.
The End of Time: Would it happen or had it already been prevented? Where had the Plague come from? Why had it come? Why had it left? What did the sealed walls of the abode of Lash withhold? Why did the robe-wearers not partake in the common doom, skulking behind their walls, and what would happen now? People whispered to one another, looking at the Tower, some warily, some balefully; sometimes voices would rise up, asserting that it was the acolytes of Lash who had invited this disaster with all their talk of the End of Time. It was even whispered that they had loosed the Plague on the city and then sheltered behind strong walls; it was said that the archmage, the former dean of the university, had disappeared to parts unknown on the very day the Plague ended, and that now his daughter accused the robe-wearers of all the deaths. The townsfolk were agitated; they exchanged glances with one another, not wanting to believe. The Tower did not rush to contradict the rumors that were stirring up the city, and the glances that were cast toward it became ever more sullen. Contrary to the remonstrances of the mayor, an assault with crowbars and pickaxes was already planned when the stone works that barred the doors crashed down, broken through from the inside.
Egert, who at that moment was in the library, flinched, feeling a solid thud that shook the earth. From the window he could see quite clearly how the crowd besieging the Tower fell back as if repelled by a gust of wind.
In the black breach stood a hunched gray figure with disheveled hair as white as the moon.
Less than half the soldiers of Lash remained among the living. The bodies of the deceased robe-wearers lay in front of the Tower; they lay in long rows, and wide hoods concealed the dead faces to their chins. The living acolytes stood just as motionless as their dead comrades, and their hoods fell over their faces just as low, and the wind pulled at the clothing of both the living and the dead with the same sluggishness.
Egert did not hear the Magister’s speech; fear kept him from approaching. The crowd listened in silence. In the flood of the Magister’s voice, in the most passionate section of his speech, Egert did hear a brief “Lash!” The people shuddered, involuntarily lowering their heads. Then the Magister fell silent, and the crowd slowly dispersed, docile and hushed, as if lost in solving the riddle presented by the Magister.
Several weeks passed. The surviving students rejoiced when they met one another on the steps of the university, but after boisterous embraces and greetings an uneasy silence usually followed: inquiring about the fate of their friends, far too often they received the most grievous of all possible news. However that may be, the university soon came back to life. The news of the dean’s death was transmitted in a whisper, and many shuddered at hearing it, but many also grieved, and therefore reached out to Toria, wishing to share her grief.
The headmaster expressed his condolences to Toria. She accepted them with reserved dignity. Her father’s study became her own, and she spent many hours under the steel wing, reviewing Luayan’s papers, especially his manuscript. The Amulet of the Prophet, at the request of Egert, was hidden in a place known only to her: Egert did not want to know the secret, and Toria, biting her lips, respected his wish.