The First Binding, page 16
The man with the yellow eyes laughed, the pair at his side joining in. “I have one. A good one at that.”
Khalim gave the man a wan smile. “We’re not thinking of the same sort of good here, Koli-eiyah. You mean you have a strong reputation. I hope to make you one where you’re well thought of too, not just feared.”
Koli. The man who ran one of the largest thuggee bands in the quarter. The one who had Nisha as one of his little thieves … and beat her—made her life a living hell where she feared even the touch of friends.
Something hot and ugly stirred inside me. A thing of embers and writhing snakes, pressing against my stomach. My gums ached from how hard I gritted my teeth.
I was young, lean, and more than any of that, fast and agile. I could cross the stage quick enough. Making it over to the man wouldn’t be so hard. But no. It’d be too obvious.
But I’d watched many of the best performers around. I could play the harmless child, get close, grab the dagger and—
The weight returned. Koli and I locked eyes. I hadn’t been aware I’d been glaring at him. In that instant, I understood a part of him I wish to this day I could forget.
Koli reveled in what he did. He enjoyed the power he wielded and lorded over others. He liked the thuggery and butchery he was party to, and the idea people would dance to his tune.
I don’t know what he saw in me in that moment, but he smiled. It was a thing of all teeth and anticipation. Something reserved for a hungry wolf about to get its meal.
If Khalim caught our heated stare, he gave no sign that he had. He went on as if Koli had never broken eye contact with him. “Being a patron here, Koli-eiyah, will soften your image to many.”
“I don’t need to appear soft, Khalim-sahm.” Koli clapped a hand to the theater runner’s shoulder, squeezing it hard. “I need to be paid. I need to be respected—feared. And, if some people happen to like me through all of that, that’s fine. Otherwise—” He waved a hand in the air as if to banish the thought and conversation.
Sweat beaded along the back of Khalim’s head. “The theater can do a lot more than just offer you a better name. Money flows through here. Not much, true, but that could change. It’s a big building with lots of room for people. And it can surely be used for other things as well as dramas, no?”
His words brought me up short, my arms stopping in the motion of scrubbing.
I wasn’t as wise to the ways and workings of the world as I am today, and so I missed the greater implication in Khalim’s offer. If I had known then, I might have protested, and things would be different.
Koli dragged an index finger along the length of his mustache, visibly musing over the suggestion. His mouth spread into a carnivorous smile and he extended a hand. “I made a mistake earlier, Khalim-sahm. This place could use a good patron. And maybe a name for me helping the arts wouldn’t be so bad, hm? People like drama. Good. I’ll give what I can … and you’ll remember this when I come to call, hm?”
I watched the muscles along Khalim’s neck to shoulders tense. His body stiffened and he managed a jerky incline of the head that I took as silent acceptance.
Koli kept the hungry expression on his face and turned to move as another figure walked into view at the far end of the room.
He wore loose and flowing robes so bright a red it was as if they’d been freshly dyed in blood. A thin veneer of road dust and grime clung to their folds but did nothing to dull the color. The man could have been Khalim’s senior by a decade. More iron and chalk to his hair in places than black. He wore it long and free, flowing down past his shoulders. His beard had been cut short and tight to the face, showing not a hint of silver throughout. Despite his age, he stood tall and straight as if the years hadn’t taken their toll on him.
I caught sight of the head of a staff protruding from behind his back, likely fastened in place. It could have been a walking stick. Its tip looked to be fashioned of dark stone and charred wood compressed tightly together.
He had a broad face, but not carrying any of the weight you’d expect in a man of his age. His skin had been weathered by time, but that was the worst of it. He looked like he’d been carved out of dark clay and left to harden.
Khalim and Koli regarded him, trading quiet looks between themselves.
The stranger took them both in as well before settling his attention on Khalim. “Are you the man who—” He broke off, gesturing at the surroundings.
Khalim nodded. “I am. This is my theater and I put on the finest dramas and plays in Abhar.”
While it was true in terms of quality, the noble and wealthy would be hard-pressed to agree. Our caste alone prevented us from being regarded even as good, not to say anything of the best. Beyond that, the influential liked who they did based on the gossip and hearsay of others in their circle. It was a long line from us to the respectable, and our skills be damned.
The robed visitor grunted more to himself than the men around him. “I’ve heard your reputation for being willing to put on dramas and plays outside the norm. The ones temples and priests frown upon.”
Khalim shrugged. “We read the day and times like anyone else. When we can get away with being a bit more creative, we do. I’ll not lie about it. I like to take my chances and push when I can. Being Sullied has its advantages at times. We’re as low as can be. Means there’s already so low an opinion of me that can be had.” Khalim’s voice carried no trace of bitterness. He spoke a long-known and accepted truth, and one he could live with.
“I can work with that, which brings me to why I’m here. Your name has been spreading through all the right circles. If it weren’t for your caste, you’d be playing for little lords and ladies. All of which makes me believe you might be the perfect person to help me get to the bottom of a mystery plaguing me.” He paused, chewing over what to say next.
“Do you know what these are?” The stranger pointed to a series of braided strings looping around one of his shoulders. Each set of cords were a different color. A length of twisted white, a coiling band of yellow, and the third seemed to be a sort of muddled gray almost like it had been a different shade before but was now washed out.
Khalim nodded. “I do. But it doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“I’m looking for a story. One I hope you might know, and if you don’t, I hope you’ll help me uncover it. To that end, I’d be willing to place myself at your service for the time it takes me to dig to the bottom of this. I can add a great deal to your performances. Fire, smoke—”
Khalim waved him off. “I have something for that already. Well, someone.” He gestured with a tilt of his head toward me. “Though, my help has a problem doing as he’s told.” Khalim turned fully, giving me a look that made it clear we’d have a long talk later about why I was up above the understage today.
I forced a smile across my face I hoped came off as innocent and charming.
Khalim’s mouth pressed into a frown that told me I still needed to work on my acting.
The stranger gently laid a hand on Khalim’s arm, bringing the theater owner’s attention back to him. “I’m not talking about whatever tricks and stagecraft the boy can conjure. I’m talking about what you know a man like me is capable of.”
A moment of silence passed between all parties, and I found myself inching closer to the edge of the stage to hear things better.
The pause was the kind in the great plays. One where you knew something big would come at the end of it—a secret, a twist, the sort that would draw the breath from you.
And I wanted to be privy to it. Call it the curiosity of a young boy, though I’ve not let go of the habit, or simply a human need for wanting to know, but I had to see what came next.
And I’ll never forget it.
Koli reached out and grabbed the stranger’s collar, shoving him toward his massive henchman. “Take this idiot away and let me finish my business with Khalim in quiet. I don’t want or need other ears around.” He turned to face Khalim. “We were discussing something private and I mean to finish my business.” Koli pulled the dagger from his belt while his large thug worked to restrain the newcomer.
I couldn’t hear what the robed man said next, his eyes narrowing as he spoke in a tone so soft only the man handling him seemed to hear him.
The wide-bellied brute turned the stranger around and bent to bring his face closer to the visitor’s. He gave him a frog-like smile, wide-lipped and flabby.
The robed man’s mouth moved silently and he raised a hand.
A spark. A wisp of orange thread kindled in his palm.
He spoke again.
The thread of light snapped and crackled almost as if it would wink out of existence, but something kept it flickering. It burst to life as flames large as the thug’s head, dancing and threatening to grow out of the stranger’s open hand.
All eyes turned and fixed on the sight.
Koli’s dagger came up toward the man in red with fire in his hand, but the weapon shook visibly in his grip.
“Touch me again, and I’ll bring a flame hotter than this to life inside you, searing you bone and bracken. Make any move toward me”—the man in red looked over his shoulder at Koli—“and I’ll bring the stones of this entire building down on you. You’ll be far lower in reputation and stature when I’m done.” He turned to Koli’s thin, rakish henchman and raised a hand overhead as if trying to grab a piece of the ceiling. He spoke under his breath again.
Stone shook. Dust and debris flitted down, sparkling as they hung in rogue beams of morning light.
“Begone!” The stranger’s voice now echoed like it came from hundreds of men at once all in a cavern. When the stone shook again, I couldn’t tell if it was under the weight of his inhuman baritone, or whatever he had done with his hand earlier. “Go, guhli-wallah, gutter trash.” He gestured at the door Koli had come in from. “Take your dogs with you and go. If you don’t, I’ll lay such suffering on you that you will come to fear the merest whisper about binders.” He leaned closer to Koli, the flame in his other hand still burning bright. “Go.”
Koli and his trio needed no further encouragement. The thugs turned and ran.
And just like that, the stone of the theater settled. The fire died, and the robed man’s posture weakened like he’d run for days on end without food.
Khalim moved to his side to support him. “Do you know what you’ve done—cost me?”
The stranger gave him a weary and lopsided grin. “Saved you from a troublesome man who could come back to bother you later. Trust me, I’ve met his sort.”
Khalim grabbed hold of the binder, shaking him. “I needed that money. We did!” He waved a hand at the theater. “I wouldn’t be dealing with the likes of Koli unless I had to.”
“I’ll do what I can to ease the loss.”
Khalim stepped closer to the binder, bringing his nose a hair’s breadth from the other man’s. His eyes narrowed, and I could see the muscles along Khalim’s neck tensing. “You don’t have much of a choice now, binder. Welcome to my theater. Don’t hurt my family. Don’t tarnish my reputation. And live up to your name and trade, we will be fine, ji-ah?” This wasn’t an offer. Khalim had lost his deal with Koli, and now made it clear to the stranger that he’d been conscripted into service. To hopefully offset the loss.
The binder extended a hand, shaking Khalim’s. “Ji. I am Mahrab.”
“Khalim.” My friend and caretaker pulled away from the binder’s grip. “I’m going to see if I can still smooth things over with him. Don’t make trouble while I’m gone. I’ll settle where you’ll sleep and your duties when I get back.” He turned and left in the direction Koli had gone.
The rag had gone limp in my hand, falling free of my grip a second later.
Magic. Real magic. The sort done in the stories. The kind in the tales I’d heard in the theater. Binders. Scholar magicians who could mold the world around them to do great and terrible things.
I watched Mahrab, slack-jawed, unsure what to say now that a piece of real story stood before me.
He must have known what went through my mind because he approached me. “Are you one of his, then?”
I nodded, still unable to find my words.
“What’s your name?”
“Ari.”
“Ari, hm?” His mouth moved like he was almost tasting my name. A moment later, he gave me his thoughts on it. “It’s a good name.” He smiled, holding out a hand. “I’m Mahrab.”
I leapt toward him, taking his hand in the both of mine and shaking it harder than necessary.
He didn’t pull away from my overly enthusiastic grip, choosing instead to look around the stage. “And you help Khalim-sahm around here, huh? You’re his … magic, as he put it?”
I nodded. “I work the understage, though, I’m hoping one day he’ll let me star and perform.”
“Is that the height of your ambition? To be a performer? That’s all there is written for Ari and his story?”
I paused. The question robbed me of my excitement, but it came crashing back an instant later as I considered something. He had birthed a flame in his hand. Called fire. Like Brahm. “You did magic.”
“I did.”
“Like out of the stories.”
Mahrab lowered his head in what could have been a yes.
I took a breath, knowing that I didn’t have the right to ask what I was about to. But I had a child’s fearlessness and desire. A terrible combination at times.
And I knew what I really wanted in life. To birth my own flame. To understand fire and shape it the way it once had been eons ago. I didn’t want to play in a story. I wanted to be the story. A legend in my own right.
A child’s ambition knows no bounds. And a man or woman who holds to that can go on to do great or horrible things.
“Will you teach me?”
Sometimes a single word can be the most dangerous of all. And he said it.
“Yes.”
It was as simple as that.
Looking back, I don’t think Mahrab knew what I’d come to be and do with his teachings.
After all, I was only a child.
TWELVE
LESSONS AND TRUTHS
Mahrab was everything a young boy could have wanted in a teacher. Patience came as naturally to him as breathing. He appreciated curiosity, and rewarded it.
He had energy to spare and a mind strong enough to dedicate to the rigors of dealing with me as his student.
Most of all, I remember his eyes and his voice. The first were like pieces of jade worn until nothing but a tired gray remained with the slightest tinge of green to serve as a reminder of what had been there once before.
His voice resonated strong and clear. He had a commanding air like he’d taught more than just young boys in the mystic arts. He could have led an army. But his gaze and baritone were never without a measure of kindness.
“You’re asking the wrong questions, Ari.” Mahrab reached into the folds of his robes and plucked free a strand of silver that could have come from his own hair.
I squinted at it, then him, waiting for him to explain.
“You’re wondering how I called the fire. You should be asking yourself how I kept it burning. The first is a trick. The second is where magic comes in.” He pursed his lips and fixed me with a stare. “A binding, at any rate.”
The way he’d said it made it clear he wanted me to ask the obvious question. So I did. “Is there a difference?”
He held up a finger. “A fundamental one. We know how bindings work, at least.” Mahrab gave me a toothy grin that I flashed back. “There are ten bindings all men must know. Man has crafted, discovered, and lost more to time than we’ll ever know, but the ten are the roots of every binder, even should you fail to master them. In fact, few ever do master more than one, but you need to know how to apply them.”
Ten bindings. Ten whole ways to shape the world around me like Brahm had.
“What are they?” I leaned forward, not caring if my knees scuffed against the hard and unforgiving floor of the understage.
He waggled a finger. “You don’t climb a tree from the top, Ari. Listen. Be patient.”
I huffed a breath of irritation.
“You’ll have to work on that.” His mouth twitched at one corner like he wanted to laugh. “Let’s start with the binding I did with the fire, hm?” He placed the strand of fine silver into one palm. “This is really a piece of wire. Do you know what suthin is?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a metal found up north in the mountains, near the Ashram in Uppar Radesh. When the metal is refined and purified from other sediment, it becomes volatile when mixed with the proper amounts of salt and water.” He folded his hand over the piece of wire. “I came to you in the middle of a storm. I had enough water to set this afire, and the salt I had on me.”
Then I understood. “So, the metal made the spark?”
He nodded. “It did. But I kept the fire alight. That’s where the binding came in. What you need to understand is that binders cannot create things like fire, wind, water, and earth. We can manipulate them. But we cannot birth them.”
“Brahm did!”
He gave me a level look. “Technically, if the stories are to be believed, he was already born of fire. He pulled it from himself. But, I’ll concede that he went about creating a great many things from nothing. But neither of us are him. Unless you’ve been keeping a secret from me?”
I rolled my eyes at that.
The silver thread sparked in his hand and Mahrab’s face went tight with concentration. “Ahl.” The spark rose from his palm by a hair’s breadth, continuing to rise. “Ahn.” It froze, now bobbing in place. “Whent.” He puffed a small breath that threatened to blow the flash of fire out of existence. “Ern.” The sliver of light flashed, widening and billowing into a tendril of greater flame. It licked at the air and spread, soon fanning into a ball of fire I’d seen before.
It held me, mind and heart. I couldn’t tear myself away from the fire and found myself lost in every burning coil as they snapped and waved.
