The First Binding, page 11
The rain had turned into a mist of gossamer-thin strands.
I stepped into it, closing my eyes as I took in the solace the rooftop offered. Some believe the rain is without smell. They’re wrong. It’s a cleanness that only the sky can bring. An absence of other odors, washed away for an air of crispness—softness. It is light and soothing as spring in its fullness.
I took a deep breath, holding it in me with the thought of pushing it down into the pit of my stomach. The folds of my mind bled into view with stark whiteness. They begged for me to flood them with another binding, anything—a trace of more magic. I exhaled slowly, letting the breath filter out of me over the course of several seconds. The urge passed and I rested my back against the door.
“A gentleman,” came the voice, “would offer to sit with a woman in the rain so she wasn’t cold and alone.”
I fought the smile etching its way across my face and turned toward Eloine.
She sat, knees tucked to her chest, a few feet to my side. The young woman hugged her legs, watching me intently with a look that spoke of several things: How did I find her? What happened after she’d left? And would I say anything about her current state?
The whole of her called to me, and I answered in kind, taking her in. Her hair resisted the rain in part, holding on to a hint of the curls I’d seen earlier. A single drop had run down the curved and elegant bridge of her nose to settle on the tip. Her lids had darkened from the water, but I also noticed something else. A slight sheen hung in her eyes, and it hadn’t come from the rain.
Tears. I didn’t acknowledge them, knowing she wouldn’t want me to. Another reason she might have chosen a spot outside during the rain.
I came to her side and kneeled.
She smiled at that. “And I thought you told me that you weren’t a gentleman.”
My back rested against the wall as I slid down to my bottom. I raised an arm, spreading my cloak in a silent offer. She leaned forward and allowed me to slip my limb behind her. A quick pull and I had her snugly against me under the shelter of my red shroud. “I think I’ll play one tonight, for you.”
“Mhm.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, touching the tip of an index finger to the bow of her upper lip. “And gentlemen usually do as ladies ask.” It wasn’t a question. She slid nearer to me, rubbing her shoulders against my chest.
“Usually.” A hint of uncertainty crept into my voice.
“And if I ask you to make good on your promise?” She looked at me, her eyes seeming all the wider now in her closeness.
I almost lost myself in the depths of the green, which had now gone the color of pine boughs under fog. They’d faded to something softer. Something brittle. A silent plea hung in her request. The sort of thing I’d heard before in people wanting a story for other reasons than entertainment.
An escape. A reprieve from something burdensome, an unshakable weight that threatened to pull them back somewhere deep inside them they’d fought tooth and claw to escape.
I inclined my head in agreement. Offering an avenue of departure from the here and now was within my power. No matter how fleeting the distraction would be, for those moments, Eloine would be spared whatever gnawed at her.
“A part of me is still loath to the idea of sharing my story.” I watched her out of the corners of my eyes, letting a teasing smile spread across my face.
Then I exhaled, drawing the air back into me a second later. If I did this thing, shared with her my past, unvarnished with all the follies and misdeeds intact, there was no telling how she’d take it. I chewed over that for another moment, finding myself all the more enamored with Eloine for not pressing me as I deliberated.
“This is a story of many things. A story spanning thousands of miles and different skies. Some truths. Good deeds. Legends. And lies … A story of how I came to be known as The Dragon of Rokash, the fire among the frozen steppes and its people. Of how I became the Sword of the Jade Halls in Laxina, far in the east where the earth begins to kiss the lowest of the heavens. I am the Eagle of Edderith, the lion who kindled everlasting flame. He who struck at the Shaen, all for love of a princess. One I failed. And I incurred the eternal wrath of the black riders.
“I have learned the ten bindings all men must know and mastered them all. I have spent one hundred and one nights with Enshae, and kidnapped her from between the grips of warring Morning Lords. And in the end, I walked away bound to return, hamed in blood-red so as to guarantee I keep my word.” My collar tightened around my throat before loosening the next instant.
“I have seen the faces of a dozen beings all said to be the one true god, and I’ve bested them all. I’ve set fire to the fabled Ashram and buried the village of Ampur under a mountain of ice and snow.
“I have stolen lost magics, best forgotten, and was cursed for it. I’ve robbed merchant kings and sailed to the ends of the world. And I’ve lost more money than ten lords could dare to dream of having. I’ve collected the greatest of tales, and locked one of them away. I’ve seduced beings of myth, born to sing and twist the minds and hearts of men. I’ve done these things and a thousand more that could be legends for all time. But among them, I’ve come to carry the greatest sin imaginable.
“I’ve set loose that which will swallow this world—consume it all, light and hope.” My hand fell over my heart as it ached in agony. I pulled against the fabric of my clothing, squeezing it tight.
“This is not a story of only wonder, but just as much of horror. Of heroism, and the moments I’ve fallen far short into villainy. It is, in its whole, a tragedy. And it’s something that has left me searching for a salvation I’m not so sure exists. A story, first of all kind, the truth of all things within it. Chasing behind this thing to find the roots and follow them to the end. But, it’s all unfolding before me still to this day. This is a story of how I’ve killed the world, and no one but me knows it yet. This is the truth of why most people fear the real me.”
Eloine squeezed my shoulder tight, looking at me with burning resolution in her eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”
I took her hand within mine, pulling it away from me. “You should be. Now let me tell you why.”
EIGHT
SOUNDS AND STAGES
My story begins far to the east. A place of sand-swept streets and high walls of stone. Of homes, tall and fashioned of hard brick and mortar. The country of marble and gold. The land of salt and spice. The center of all trade and wealth.
Though, it would be a lie to say I’d ever seen any of that in my youth.
And in my younger years is the place to start, in the kingdom of Abhar, richest within the Mutri Empire. Notably the poorest as well, especially along the streets I lived under in the city of Keshum. It all depended on who you were.
I bring this up because it’s what I wonder drove my parents to be rid of me. It’s not for sympathy I tell you this. Just understanding. I have no other reason, still to this day, why I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember.
I don’t remember their faces, their voices. Nothing.
But I remember the first place I called home.
* * *
The understage was a thing pulled from a child’s dreams … or nightmare.
A place as large as mountain caverns with all the cold dark stone to match. Repurposed wood, rock, and metalworks littered the place, casting odd and long shadows if given the slightest bit of light. The kinds of shapes young children would inevitably think of as monsters come for them. It was a place of ropes and pulleys, winding above you to form a tangled web that should never have functioned. Yet, no two lengths of twine rubbed against each other or caught tight.
The hollow tubes along one wall made me think of tall reedy men in the night keeping watch over me. The low burning fire off to one side, nestled in an old rusted iron mouth, could have been a dragon. At least, I often saw it as such when I couldn’t fall asleep.
In truth, the understage was a living wonder to me, albeit one of cold dead things that had found a new purpose under my hands. To breathe and move and perform. A motley assembly of contraptions that would bring another set of voices to any theater play.
And one voice led it all.
“Clink, boy. Clink!”
I heeded the rough call, rushing forward to grab a length of rope. The whole of my weight fell against it as I pulled. I didn’t carry the strength to yank it down with the force needed, having to throw myself toward the ground.
The crude and worn pulley shivered in its mounting above. It clinked like a glass bottle tapping against metal.
A chorus of laughter, tinged with light clapping, echoed from what might as well have been a world away.
I smiled despite my weariness. My arms ached, not accustomed to the laborious days yet.
“Thump!”
I released my hold on the rope, scrambling over a raised wooden platform before me. My knees throbbed with days-old pains that had manifested in the form of palm-sized bruises. I cleared the obstruction, rounding its side and reaching for another rope. The old twine, frayed and tough, bit lightly against the flesh of my palms as I jerked it.
A canted lever above me moved, swinging its broad and cloth-wrapped head into a wide drum. It struck with thunderous resonance and clapped with the full force of a storm.
“Rain.” The call had lost much of the bark and bluster driving it.
I answered it, scurrying through the little wooden realm of tools and mechanisms. My haste had driven my shin into a block, used as a step, knocking it aside and driving renewed agony through my leg. The pain settled into my already suffering knee, of course. I winced through it and ignored the light and chiding tsk that came from the darkened corner of the room.
A series of bamboo pillars occupied a good portion of the wall to my side. Even though I couldn’t see past the rest of their length past the ceiling, I knew they ran up well into the air on the floor above. Small knobs protruded from the tops of them just out of my reach. I cursed myself for forgetting the obvious and rushed back to fetch the step.
The voice didn’t call this time, silently observing my mistake with the cool collectedness of usual.
The step clattered to the ground before me with a sound much like the drum. I clambered on top and reached up to pull the first knob. A wooden disc slid back, not fully out of the bamboo, releasing the endless grains of sand and discarded metal shavings held above. They cascaded within the tubing and down what I knew were sets of grooves varying in thickness.
The sound of gentle rain filled my ears and echoed through the shaft into the stage above. I repeated the process, enthusiasm filling my motions and making them slightly erratic. My fingers pinched another knob, and I pulled.
More rain.
I hadn’t learned my lesson of patience and leaned on the unsteady step to grasp at the last of the knobs. Its bulbous head hung just at the edge of my fingertips, leaving me only able to brush it in futility. My legs and sides quaked as I bent at an angle only children could manage. My thumb and forefinger found a small bit of purchase against the knob and I pulled.
The disc pulled free to the gentle susurrus of added rain.
It failed to muffle the noise as I toppled from my precarious perch, crashing onto the ground with a thumpfh. The step slid back and clattered against the wall with a woody racket.
“Bellows,” called the voice without a trace of emotion. It was the gruff and short tone of someone ordering about a performance with no time for anything but action.
I scrabbled to my feet, lurching a few steps as bright spots of pain flared to life through my body. Wincing through them was my only recourse as I hobbled toward a black iron stove.
Its bulbous body had been repurposed, tapering to a thin pipe that led far above to the stage overhead. An opening had been fashioned to one of its sides with a working set of bellows to manipulate the fire as needed.
My hands clasped tight to the handles of the rigid boards and I set to the task. My arms ached, thin cords of muscle flexing while I pumped air into the makeshift furnace. Smoke churned to life as I renewed the intensity of the fire within the iron body. I knew black clouds would billow far above onto the stage, bringing another layer of life to the performance.
I knew from the two years of working below the stage what play went on above simply by the routine I ran in the understage. The muscles along my sides tensed, crying in fatigue as I continued working the bellows.
“Crank.”
I huffed out a short breath, not bothering to wipe the sweat from my brow as I pulled away from the hot stove. My hair had plastered itself to my skull. Some of the locks tickled the tops of my ears where they brushed against the soft and sensitive flesh. I reached the two wheels, rings of steel with four spokes running through each. A small lever had been fixed to a point along both of their rims for ease in turning them.
I took each in hand, grunting and putting my weight into pushing against them. Each of them juddered in protest against my sudden effort. They relented the next second and spun lazily despite my best efforts. A light squealing, from metal long in need of oiling, filled the understage as I cranked along.
The curtain call. My motions had to be smooth and strong, ensuring the fabrics above the stage would come to gentle and flowing close to hide the performers. I kept that in mind as I pumped my arms for every bit of strength I could manage out of them. The wheels shook to a sudden halt, refusing to go any farther.
I let go and doubled over now that my job was done. Each labored breath came as a relief, cool and sweet, even though the temperature was anything but. My breeches, if they could be called that—tattered and torn in places—served as a serviceable cloth to wipe my grimy hands on. Better than my face. What little bits of sweat and filth remained ended up on my worn and weathered shirt.
The once-white clothing had faded to an old gray. It was the shade of cobblestones after years of trampling feet and unforgiving rains. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t wipe clean the few soot stains lining the edges of my wrists.
“Stop that. You’ll wear out what little you’ve got.” The source of the voice finally emerged from the dark corner of the room. He stood a few hairs short of six feet with a wiry build that came from both years of tough labor and not quite getting all the meals he required. His cotton shirt and pants hung off his frame, loose and flitting occasionally as errant breezes rolled through.
I closed my eyes, inhaling and pulling the air down deep in my chest, holding on to the refreshing breath.
“Mazashad.” The man spat. “Someone left the door out to the back open again.” He repeated the earlier curse, not bothering to hack up spittle and fling it anywhere in the understage.
“Wasn’t me, Khalim. Promise.” I raised a hand to my heart, emphasizing my honesty. It would have been convincing had I not been averting my gaze.
Khalim snorted, coming close. He had a fatherly manner about him. It manifested best and clearest in his face. His head was solid and thick, the sort you’d normally attribute to thugs and bandits in plays. But upon a closer look, one could see where he differed from those kinds of people. He had a narrow forehead lacking the broad and sloping appearance of the more brutish elements of society. Even under the dim light in the understage, I could see the patchy stubble running along the side of his skull and some of the top.
He’d started going bald years before I met him, choosing now to keep himself clean shaven, beard and head. It added a softness to the hard angles of his face. Khalim’s nose sat crooked in a manner that said one thing: It had been made so courtesy of another man’s fist.
I knew the story behind it. He’d once saved another child, long ago, and given them a home here. The act had earned him a thrashing.
Khalim kneeled before me, placing his large hands on my shoulders.
I flinched instinctively.
“Oi, I’m not going to hit you, Ari.” Khalim gripped me tightly, giving me a gentle shake. “I’ll work you like a dog, but that’s the price for this life. But I’m not like those people, huh?” Another shake.
I nodded. He’d lived up to his word, so far. But everyone hit you eventually. It was a matter of time. All it took was a bad day, a poor earning, and you being the closest thing around when they snapped. But I kept the doubts from showing on my face.
I may not have been allowed to perform onstage, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t learned a hint of the craft.
“You’re a clever boy, Ari.”
I grinned.
“But sometimes being clever is a bad thing. And do you know what’s worse than being clever?” He gave me a long, knowing look.
I shook my head.
“Being a clever little shit.” Khalim reached out and tweaked my nose between a thumb and forefinger.
“Ow!” I lashed out, brushing aside his arm and grabbing my face. The sensation only lasted a couple of seconds.
“That’s for leaving the door open. It’ll get cold down here. Maybe your”—he placed a hand on my chest, giving me a little shove that rocked me back a step—“little body, young and fit, can take that. I cannot.” Khalim hooked a thumb to his own sternum, then rubbed it. “Old chest gets cold.” He moved his hands down to his knees, massaging them. “These too. They creak and clank just like those.” Khalim nodded to the pulleys and wheels.
The man didn’t look past his middle years, but a life hovering between abject poverty, and worse, aged him prematurely. He grew tired at times from acts of simple labor that men a decade older could perform with little trouble. On winter nights, when the wind grew dry and biting, he struggled to breathe properly. His words weren’t exactly meant to chastise me, but they had the same effect.
I fixed my gaze on the ground, unable to meet his eyes. “Sorry, Khalim. Won’t happen again.” One of my hands went to my throat, resting over the hollow of it. I pinched the area gently like I was choking off the space my voice came from. “Promise.”
He winked once, eyes twinkling. “That’s what you said the last time, ah?” Khalim placed a hand on my head, running his fingers through my hair before jostling me. “Now, on to more important things.”
