Marina Dyachenko - The Scar

The foremost in his soul must become the last. For her sake, for the sake of fulfilling his promise, he had to denounce and betray her; he had to let her be judged. Who had woven this web?

Heaven, he had paused for too long: already the hall was agitated and Fagirra was frowning, and the executioner was looking on with interest, casually lowering his sack to the floor.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but his imagination could spit on him for all it cared whether his eyes were open or not; his imagination obligingly pushed on him a vivid, meticulously detailed picture of the torture chamber. Chains dig into his flesh, holding him down, the executioner methodically bends over him; he is unassuming and repulsive in his shapeless sack, and in his hands he holds the pliers. Egert’s clenched jaws are pried open with an enormous bar, the pliers come ever closer, the iron beak opens as if about to feast, Egert fitfully tries to turn his head away, somewhere in the darkness a placid voice utters the words “false witness,” and Egert feels the icy pinch of steel at the root of his tongue.…

A man should not fear so. Thus do animals fear who have fallen into a trap, thus do cattle fear who are being driven to the gates of the slaughterhouse. By some miracle, Egert’s legs did not fall out from under him.

Fagirra’s gaze lay on him like a gravestone; Fagirra’s gaze squeezed him, mastering his soul, disordering his thoughts. The fifth question had been asked.

He must answer now, while the pliers were still in the sack, while the Wanderer looked on, aware of everything in advance. He would answer, and the fear would cease tormenting him: for why else would the scar ache so? It throbbed and fretted as if it were a living creature, as if it were a leech that had sucked his blood for so many days and now, right now, it was fated to die.

“Egert.” The sound of the word barely carried from the prisoner’s dock. It is possible that Toria had not uttered it aloud, but he understood that she was giving her blessing to his fifth yes.

… Fire in the fireplace, dark hair on the pillow, childlike fear and faith, also childlike, trusting. The high window of the library, a wet bird on the path, and the sun, the sun beats at the window. A basket in his arms, green onions tickling his hand, a warm roll from her hand, and the sun again. The print of a heel in soft, warm earth, her palms over his eyes, and the sun shines in through her fingers. The scent of wet grass, snow melting on hair …

Toria quietly scraped her bench along the floor. “Egert.”

How afraid she was for him. She wanted for this all to end as quickly as possible, for him to finally say the word.

His hesitation would gain him nothing. His fear would speak on its own, and his lips would be unable to form any word other than the magical fifth yes. His vocal cords would refuse to work, should he wish to step away from the designated path.

“Enough, Egert!” Fagirra glanced eloquently at the executioner. “I’ll ask you one last time: Is it true that the magical acts of the dean and his daughter called forth the Plague?”

The Wanderer’s lipless mouth quivered slightly. It is quite easy to err, and a mistake will cost you much.… This moment will occur just once in your life, and if you let it slip away, all hope will be forever lost.

So much pain in this hall! So much pain has settled into Toria’s small body! Oh, how the scar aches.

Silence.

He raised his eyes. Two windows watched him from the indifferent eyes of the Wanderer.

“N…”

The fear bellowed at him. It roared and jerked about, lacerating his throat, paralyzing his tongue. All his vast, overwhelming, omnivorous fear, which had for so long been building its fetid lair in Egert’s soul, howled and whirled like a raging monster.

“… o.”

The word broke free from his mouth and, nearly broken from exhaustion, he closed his eyes with a clear conscience, giving himself over to the lacerations of his fear.

The word boomed out in the silent hall like an explosion from a gun turret.

The students screamed victoriously, the crowd began to clamor, Fagirra snapped something sharply, and Toria, sitting stunned on her bench, exuded horror at the thought that the curse on Egert was now eternal and unbreakable. He perceived this and shuddered, his hands stretched out toward his mouth as if wishing to beat back the word that had just flown out, but he realized with relief that it was impossible to withdraw what had been said, however much the fear tried to turn him inside out. Reeling, he looked out into the hall, at the Wanderer, and his look contained something akin to a challenge.

And then the Wanderer, who alone had remained impassive in the excited crowd, permitted himself to smile.

The world lurched in front of Egert’s eyes; it swam, it faded as if it were being burned away. He felt a pure, placid calm. He wanted to close his eyes and bask in the incredible tranquillity, but then the world returned; it collapsed in on him with the noise of the crowd and the shouts of the guards. Colors returned to it, and never in his life had Egert Soll seen such vivid colors.

… Who are all these people? Who is that man, hiding his face under a hood? How dare they restrain that woman … Toria!

The dais quivered. Egert realized that he was already running; someone in red and white flew off to the side in fear, sheltering behind a pike. The executioner’s stool fell on its side awkwardly, like a dead rat, and the iron pliers tumbled out of the sack.

It seemed to Egert that he was moving slowly, like a fly bogged down in honey. Distorted faces flickered on the edge of his vision, shouts clamored on the edge of his hearing. Someone shouted, “Seize him!” Someone shouted, “Leave him be!” The students bellowed and the clerk hammered on his table, and the pale face of Toria moved ever closer. Ever closer were her eyes, flung open so wide that her curved eyelashes dented the skin of her eyelids and her enlarged pupils absorbed the light without sparkling; ever closer were her half-open, dry lips, her bitten, swollen lips. Egert ran for an eternity. The dais shuddered under his boots; someone stood in his path, but he flew off, swept away. Egert ran, and blood flowed over his cheek, over his lips, over his chin, dripping down onto his shirt: in the place of the scar now blazed an open wound.

And then his feet tripped over an outstretched sword sheath and he fell, losing sight of Toria’s face, splaying out his elbows. The edge of the dais flashed before his eyes, then the high, dark ceiling, and from somewhere above him boomed the words, “Do you remember the punishment for false witness?”

He saw veins pounding in a temple; twitching, bloodless lips; and dark fissures in the corner of a mouth: it was the face of the man who had tortured Toria. In Fagirra’s hands was a short sword, the weapon of the guards, and its tip was pointed directly at Egert’s stomach.

Toria. He felt her weaken from intolerable terror; he felt the adamant arms of the executioner wrapped around her. A reddish black mist condensed in his eyes.

Dive. Flip. His body had not known battle for two years, and he waited for it to disobey him, but he felt only ecstatic joy from his muscles, like the joy of a dog freed from its chain.

Toria is struggling in someone’s arms! Who would dare touch her?

He struck out, almost without looking, and the guard who had run up to him doubled over. His sword was about to fall out of his hands, but it did not fall, because Egert intercepted the heavy hilt. It was a short sword, an unfamiliar weapon, but his hand flew up, and to Egert’s amazement he heard the clash of metal on metal and saw sparks fly. Fagirra’s rabid, crazed eyes were right in front of him.