The First Binding, page 13
I lay there, stiff as the boards beneath me and nursing a silent string of curses that my blanket didn’t cover the whole of me.
The noise outside had softened from harsh snaps to something gentler. Tap. Tap. Tap. They were measured and almost rhythmic.
Realization set in, drawing me out of fear’s grip. I scrambled to my feet and clawed against the wall. My fingers found purchase in the crevices I’d chiseled in when I’d built the platform. I made it to the lip before the window, reaching out with my other hand to trip the latch.
The window slid up and revealed a girl close to my own age. Her hair was shorter than mine in places, no longer than my little finger. The strands curled wildly like she’d run her fingers through them with oil. She flashed me a smile as bright as the moon’s own glow. “Ari.”
I could have counted to ten before I found my voice. “Nisha, you’re not supposed to be here tonight.” I leaned away from the opening as she squeezed her way through. My fingers ached as I held myself in place.
She grinned, and the firelight from outside brought her features to better clarity. The warm glow did interesting things to her skin. It gave a slightly red tinge to the rich bronze of her face. She had eyes the color of burnished cedar with the slightest hints of muted orange, and the bits of light dancing across her face only brightened those notes. Her mouth parted wide as if something had just struck her. “Wait.”
I blinked, gritting my teeth as the small muscles in my hands fell under a heat much like that when I’d been struck earlier. “Hurry, please.”
If she heard my complaint, she didn’t show any signs. “Here, I brought things.” She eased her way back through the window with something filling her arms.
The smell hit me first. A strong wave of spices with an undercurrent that brought back just how hungry I truly was. As if on cue, my stomach grumbled in equal parts discontent and ravenous desire.
Nisha set down a tin bowl no larger than her fist. A faint wisp of steam wafted from it, and she laid a long length of wrinkled parchment beside the metal container. Bits of the paper carried dark splotches like something had seeped into the material.
I eyed her. “What is it?”
“Buttered bread and stew.” Her mouth pulled into a thin and uneven frown. “I know you don’t always get to eat.”
I bristled, knowing she meant well, but the comment pricked me like a barb. My life wasn’t glamorous by any means. I held on to no delusions about that. But I’d fought to make the best of it I could, and her words struck at the root of my pride. Some of the heat and acid building in my stomach made its way into my reply. “I eat fine.” I eased myself down from the lip to the first set of crevices. My stomach rumbled loud enough to reveal my lie.
Nisha said nothing, leaning forward close enough to bring her nose nearly to the tip of mine. “It’s still hot.” She sighed, looking away. “But … if you don’t want it…”
I gave voice to the groan that had buried itself in my stomach. “I do.” My weakening hold on the wall was all that kept me from lunging for the food. Instead, a moment’s reason won out and I lowered myself to my bed.
Nisha reached behind herself, revealing an old cloth. One side of the fabric could have been simply sand and sweat, but the other remained unmarred, the rich color of saffron. She carefully laid it down, almost as if performing a religious act, smoothing out any rumples within the material. Nisha placed the bread in the center before taking as much time and effort to rest the dish of stew atop. She made a few short movements to fold excess cloth out of the way before cinching the food package together at the top.
I bit back my desire to hurry her.
Nisha didn’t respond well to pressure. And an instance of anger, even a child’s impatience, could send her running away with no knowing when she’d return.
“Here.” She grunted, leaning over the sill while maintaining a solid hold on it. Nisha lowered the makeshift sack toward me.
I jumped, grabbing hold of the pack’s neck, struggling to keep it steady as I landed on the platform. My crude bed wobbled, forcing me to place an arm against the stone wall for some semblance of support. Relieved I hadn’t dropped my meal or toppled from the perch, I placed the food down by my feet and glanced up to Nisha. “Wait, don’t try to—”
She had already taken to placing her feet against the nooks and crannies, finding purchase and scrambling down with the grace and skill of an acrobat. Nisha plopped down beside me, flashing me a lopsided smile of self-satisfaction.
“When did you learn to do that?” I had asked the question carefully, keeping my tone to that of someone discussing how someone’s day had gone.
I hadn’t done a good enough job, it seemed.
Nisha shied away from my look, managing to say more with that than if she had taken a minute to answer me in detail.
I decided to move the conversation to a safer subject. “Thank you for the food. Khalim and Makham came down on me tonight. I can’t say I didn’t earn it. But Makham—”
Nisha pressed her fingers against my lips, hushing me. “No. Not now.” She pulled the sack into her lap, undoing the knot she’d tied. “Just eat. We don’t have to talk about them and the bad things. Not tonight”—she chewed on her lip and turned her gaze away again—“please?”
I acquiesced in silence. There isn’t much to do when a friend makes a plea like that. And doubly when they’re the only real companion you can have.
Nisha placed the tin before me and the bread, watching as I tore into it.
The bread folded in my hands easily. It held form like the dough was more rubber than anything else, letting me shape it into a crude shovel as I plunged it into the stew. The first bite filled my mouth with the subtle taste of mild peppers and garlic. A strong wash of onion followed, chased by hints of coriander. I swallowed it mostly whole, not bothering to chew as I continued fishing through the stew with the bread. My eyes grew owlish as I plucked a piece of red meat. “How did you pay for something with goat in it?”
She smiled. “You like it?” Nisha avoided the question, pressing me again if I was happy with the meal.
I persevered. “Did Koli ask you to steal tonight?”
Nisha went rigid as a cat stroked with a wet hand. She glared at me, shuffling away along the platform.
I reached out for her, stopping when she recoiled. “Sorry, sorry. Nisha, I didn’t mean to. I won’t ask about Koli—”
“I don’t like when he makes me do things.” She sniffed once and still refused to meet my eyes. “I don’t like being a bad person. And I don’t like you thinking about me doing those things, Ari.”
Life mandates a great many things, and for one of the casteless, without opportunity and safety, stealing is sometimes one of them. Imagine a child—a friend—worried they’re something horrible for their sheer want of survival.
The remnants of the understage, hot and heavy, filled my chest in that moment. I didn’t have the right words to soothe Nisha, so I grabbed the first I could find and hoped they’d be enough.
“Thank you for dinner. I wish I had something for you…” I trailed off as my words kindled an idea. “And maybe I do.” I flashed her a wide smile. “How long has it been since you’ve heard a story?”
She swiveled to face me, beaming. “I heard one on the streets two mornings ago … but he didn’t tell it like you do. He was from one of the temples.” Nisha sniffed and it had nothing to do with her mood. “You know how they say things. Always shouting and never telling.”
I didn’t know, which Nisha was aware of on some level, but I didn’t press it. My life hadn’t allowed me to wander the streets within the Mutri Empire. The whole of my world rested in the understage. So I nodded as she told a little story of her own, and I could see her calm a bit.
Nisha jabbed an accusing finger at my chest. “You have all strayed from the love and wisdom of Brahm. He who…” She bit off the next words, shaking her head. “I didn’t like how he did it. He stopped the story to yell at the crowds before asking for money.”
That sounded more like what I’d heard Khalim grouse about when it came to the “holy” and “wizened” men of religious life.
God and salvation will always be the greatest hook … and the greatest grift for a con man. And more often than not, men of the cloth are both, and just as often better than the honest thieves and actors of the world at it.
I kept that bit of Khalim’s wisdom to myself, and bowed my head once again to what Nisha said. “Not everyone can tell a proper story the way it needs to be.” I puffed up my chest a little, clearing my throat as if I were about to roll into a tale myself.
Nisha sighed, picking at a length of wood with her fingernails. “I know. It’s so hard to find someone who’s good at those.” She eyed me askance before turning her attention to the planks beneath us. “Who do you think is the best in the theater, Ari?”
I huffed and narrowed my eyes at her. “You know it’s me. But if you don’t want to hear a story from me, I guess I can go ask Khalim or Makham to come down and tell you all the stories you’d ever want to hear.” A lopsided smile crossed my face.
She laughed, and the sound warmed me to my heart. “No! You tell me one. Tell me one about Brahm. The start of everything.”
Bristling at a request was beneath a proper performer, especially of the kind I aimed to be. So I squirmed instead.
Of all the stories ever told, why Nisha wanted one of the most trod on and spat about of all, I didn’t know. But a look in her eyes at that moment told me enough of a reason as to why I should tell it for her. And so I did.
I cleared my throat and began, “Of Brahm and all things.”
TEN
BRAHM
First, before skies and world, before stream and stone, was black. It was wide and expansive, covering all things.
Except, then there was light. A kindling white flame, ebbing, fighting against the blackness. It refused to wink out.
An egg, a stone, a pearl.
It shone like mirrorglass far out in the dark—stark—and alone. In it rested the first thing in all of creation, the hand that would shape all things. Fateweaver, Threadpuller, the one who bound the first flame and gave us light. The one who gave the moon its pale guiding glow, a beacon for our night.
In it rested Brahm.
But in deep slumber he laid, leaving all to nothingness and all things unmade.
This was before time, the making of the Sithre, and the Fallen’s first crime.
Only nothingness and Brahm.
And then, one day, the heavenly pearl split. Streams of orange and red flame screamed through the crack. They broke apart the first egg and all silence and stillness. The fire spread, howling against the empty blackness almost in protest. And through it all … came Brahm.
In fire. In brightness and light. Into the darkness came Brahm as the first of all things. It’s said no one knows, still to this day, what he truly looked like. Too grand, beyond all words and ways to describe. Just know that there was once black, and then Brahm came to life in it—against it—burning away nothingness.
And like that, the first thing he experienced was hollowness.
There’s nothing here. It’s all empty but for me. I’m alone. His chest ached, and Brahm first knew pain. I can’t see a thing for as far as I can see, and there are no ends to that. It’s just me. Only me. And the hollow space in him grew larger. Something he wished to fill.
So Brahm wandered, lost and lonely. He carried the broken remnants of his egg wherever he went, stopping to sleep beside it when he felt tired. But what light and flame had been within the egg, given it its warmth, had since gone out. It was now in Brahm. So he slept cold, unsure what to do or where to go.
There’s nothing no matter how far I go. Where I search. All I see is blackness. And nothing wants to fill it. I’m cold. Please make it stop.
And when he could not sleep anymore, he picked up the pieces of his pearl and wandered again.
Somewhere along the way, Brahm’s solitude overtook him and he began to weep in the dark.
It hurts. The emptiness is too much—so vast. Make it bright. Give me something, anything—a light. Something warm like it was before I was born.
The blackness had gotten to him, overcoming his light, and left Brahm, shaper of all things, hollow and sad. So he shed his tears over this.
I feel heavy and brittle like my egg. I’m breaking now. I want for something. Please.
And the light of his pearl poured out from his eyes. Beads of white fire dropped from his lids, spilling from between his fingers. He felt their warmth and spread his hands, casting the droplets far and wide. They caught among the black and hung like sequins to glimmer in the wideness of night.
Warmth, he thought. Brightness. He reached out to grab the first of these and cradled their flames. It feels alive. Safe. And real. Something to fill the darkness. Something besides just me. It’s so warm. He held it close to him, letting the ball of fire take away the loneliness.
And thus Brahm created the first things, the first flitting flames. He made the stars.
Some flickered, threatening to wink out of existence. And to them, he gave his breath, billowing them into something great. He blew to life all manner of fire to hang across the dark.
No. Don’t go—don’t die. Please. He gave them another bit of breath. Dance, breathe, play with me now. Don’t leave. He coaxed them, bled for them, keeping his first friends kindled and alive as best he could. And then they hung as still as anything of fire could and can do, and he gave them names.
“Mahor. The first.” The star he’d given life to at the beginning pulsed and orbited him until Brahm forgot the deep of darkness and all the solitude it had brought him. Now he had his own lights and makings to fill the void with.
Some stars remained hot as when he first cried those tears, shimmering motes of white. Others grew into angry things the color of our sun, large enough to swallow our world.
It’s said if you look out at night, far, far at the corners of the sky, you can catch sight of some of these stars. The ones that Brahm pushed to the ends of darkness, the ones he had to forsake. So their anger wouldn’t spread to the light around them. So their pain wouldn’t taint the other things Brahm would come to make. Realizing what he had done, Brahm cried out his final few tears, flicking them free of his fingertips to have the last stars hang in the night.
I’m sorry. Some of you are holding to too much of my hurt, and in that, you can come to break what I do next. It hurts again. He placed a hand on his chest, aching in grief for pushing his first lights away.
Remember me, for I will always care for you. I will give you all the names you deserve and ensure everything knows them until the end of time.
He brushed his face dry, understanding the depth of power and flame inside him. Something that would never falter, never wane. So Brahm stood straight and set to wandering again, his eyes now clear and fixed with purpose. To find a place perfect for his loneliness to end. A spot with which to shape something new—somewhere to his talents spend.
I need to move on. Make more. Create and fill. Lights are only the beginning and the darkness needs more than that to keep the emptiness at bay. To keep all the hollow pains and loneliness away.
He came across where we are now, it’s said. Distant, dark, and empty. Somewhere with which to sew creation’s next thread. To place the seeds for life’s first bounty.
This place is too far dark and away from every star I’ve made. This place is as good as can be for new ground and makings to be laid. “So cold a place. So empty. This is like from before. Just so hollow and waiting to be filled. Will … you let me fill you, empty place in space?”
Brahm waited. He listened. Not wanting to intrude on the quiet stillness of where he was. And when he felt it, the silent agreement that only he could hear, he knew he could begin his making.
He breathed a breath, hot and thin, carrying flame and his own soul within. Through cupped hands he blew, the first winds of creation that would come to shape me and you.
Please let this hold. Let my hope and let my love fill this making and its band. Let my vision and my dream come to take and form this land.
Brahm spun the air into a band and shaped it with gentle care. He pressed it firm like shaping clay and poured more of his fire into our world, knowing a piece of him was the price to pay. Then he breathed a breath so cool, to harden the threads of this freshly made place, creation’s first new jewel.
But this world was empty save for stone. Hard of skin and hot in core, it was lacking, and needed something more. Knowing that his tears were flame, Brahm could not shape like before—the same. He brought hand to mouth and bit firmly deep. He drew his blood and birthed the flood that would waters bring to this great world. He poured it free and spread it wide till this place became of stone and tide—his salt and bone.
It hurts again. Each time I make, a precious piece of myself must I forsake. He looked at where he’d torn of himself to give to our world. “It’s beautiful. A thing unlike any other—all its own. A place of possibility to fill with new wonders and new sights.”
“But what to do, and what to make?” All I’ve known is the blackness and what it means to be empty. How do I fill a thing that has so long gone unfilled in me?
He looked around him and realized what he had to do. All he’d done was create and fill, and he still had more of that ahead of him.
This making of his was wet and firm, but that was all. It had no life. Nothing like him. Little else but shape and form.
“Another pain then to endure, to bring about something more.”
So he took his flesh in hand and pulled it hard till skin tore and sinew followed. “Take my flesh, and take my body. I want you to have of me because what you offer in return, world, is something greater.” With this fresh piece of himself, Brahm laid down the first part of true land on this world—Ibrahmia, now the Mutri Empire, and our home.
