The First Binding, page 2
“It’s better in glass,” he said after taking a long, slow sip. “People don’t know that. Not many. And no one tells you. I didn’t know myself till I met her.”
Her. How so many stories start. My mouth broke into a smile, but it was short-lived. I knew how those sorts of stories often ended.
“I didn’t have much in life.” The barkeeper shook his head, more to himself, tipping his glass back for another swallow. “Didn’t think I’d go anywhere either.” A lazy grin spread over his face as he looked around his tavern. “Guess you could say I still haven’t. But it was her that changed things.”
I placed the folded cloth over the blemish, rubbing it more for appearance’s sake than anything else.
“Karchetta isn’t much of a place, you know? Everyone goes west eventually to the seas. Fishing, now that’s a good life. Bring home food if you don’t make bits. But Etaynia is a land for fishing.” He spoke matter-of-factly.
“But truth be told, and it’s a shameful thing for a man to admit here, I can’t swim. Not much use for a fisherman that can’t weather the sea. So what’s a young man to do?”
I polished harder, giving him my full attention.
“Can’t fish, well, you sail. Keep hearing tell there’s a whole wide world out there to see.” He paused for a long moment, eyeing me sideways. “See, sailors. Because of the sea?”
I gave him a thin smile. “Clever. I must be tired is all.” I scrubbed harder, losing myself in the repetitive action. My mind slipped into a series of folds. First, in half. I became aware of only two things: the dull spot on the counter, and the now distant words of the barkeeper. Another fold, now into fours. My mind cleared and there was only the mark on the counter. The other three places were without thought or image. My mind folded again. Eight places.
Just the spot on the counter remained. A portion of wood unlike the rest, but needing to be restored. The thought intensified and I strung another image to it. I envisioned the counter as it once was. The wood carried a deeper light, new and warm.
“Was like many men, young and full of ideas. Not a whit of a notion on how to make any of them happen. And, well, could always farm. But, need a herd, or at least enough bits to have the start of one. Where’s a man to get that? Wasn’t much good with my hands either. Couldn’t build, couldn’t apprentice to anyone in a craft that made you a decent living, and that’s what I wanted. So, I tell myself to just go out and travel. Travel does a man a lot of good, or so I’ve heard.”
It does.
“But that takes money, too. You can see I’m not good at planning. Life’s too”—he waved a dismissive hand—“it just happens, you know? Not much a man can do to deal with that. So, what could I do?”
I stayed silent, folding my mind again. There was just the nature of the counter, clean but for one spot. Then there was the truth inside running opposite to the one before me. In my mind, the wood was uniform and perfect. I held to that image. My mind folded again; each square, like parchment, carried the singular vision I’d crafted.
“Well, figured first ought to clear my thoughts. Headed for the only tavern around.” He laughed to himself. “And no, wasn’t this place. Not yet, anyhow.”
The words rang dull and hollow to me. I remained fixed on my task. Every fiber of my being, my mind, believed in that spot matching the rest of the counter’s luster.
I breathed over it again. “Start with whent.” My mind folded again, becoming a multifaceted lens all mirroring the same image countless times. More faith than I’d called on in a long time welled inside me, and I applied it to the belief that the bar was as bright and flawless as when it was made. “Then go to ern.” I wiped the cloth along the spot, pulling it back.
A perfectly polished counter sat before me, reflecting things better left unseen.
I’d grown a few days’ worth of coal beard over my face. My hair was dark as night and just as wild. The long locks fell to just below my chin, caught between being waves and curls. My eyes were a shade darker than the counter. A color somewhere between bright amber and cedar.
“Solus and shadow, boy! I thought you were going to try your hand at cleaning a spot, not the whole counter. Didn’t even see you move.” The barkeeper blinked hard before rubbing a palm against each eye. He downed his glass the next instant. “Must’ve gotten lost in my own tale.” He snorted, putting the drink down. “It’s good to see this old thing like this, but it’s not like it was. I can see myself in it, hah!” He let out a rolling laugh that faded into a heavy sigh. “Wish you could’ve seen it, Rita.”
I perked up, shaking myself of the reverie and the hint of power I’d called upon. “Who’s Rita?”
I had an idea, but some stories are better left in the hands of those that lived them. Some tales just aren’t meant for professionals. There are things missing from them: the way your voice changes speaking about someone you love, the hollow knots that fill you and make their way out of your mouth when talking about pain, and the hot metal that comes with rage.
A good storyteller can mimic those, but some stories are best served raw.
“Hm? Oh, Rita was … she was behind all this.” He waved a hand absently to our surroundings. “Found me young, the best time for a boy to meet that special girl, you know? Though, come to think of it”—he frowned deeply—“suppose there’s no wrong time to meet them, so long as you do. There’s a change in luck—fortune—in meeting the right one. Anyhow, was lost without wind and sails, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
I nodded, understanding.
Etaynia was a coastal kingdom, reaping its riches from trade, fishing, exploration, and an immeasurable amount of wealth from salt. Everything revolved around the sun and seas here. The warm climate allowed for vast swaths of land to be dedicated to agriculture, grains in particular. These were well cared for, and by hardworking people. The only thing ever keeping them down was religion and the affairs of their seven efantes—princes.
He went on as if I hadn’t lost myself in thought. “Rita was a thing.”
Was. My heart ached for a moment.
I knew where this story was going.
“She had a mind and the wit to go with it. Caught me at Solus du Novre, festival of the new sun. Season of gray skies and hard seas, little light, all past. We were back to clear and bright mornings. Should’ve seen her, Storyteller. Dressed like the sun she was. All rippling red and orange. She’d made it herself. Always good with her hands.” He smiled, the sort where it reached his eyes and made him look years younger. “Was like watching leaves twirling in the wind, the way she spun and danced. You know what that’s like?”
I kept silent, letting him find his own answer.
“But you’re young. Suspect you’ve found a fair few girls to tumble with.” He fixed me with a knowing look. “But not the one, am I right?”
He wasn’t, but I nodded.
“Well, don’t know how, but she took to me. Never questioned it much after that. Man shouldn’t question good luck and fortune. When Solus gives, he gives bountifully. That’s what the sun does, hm? She convinced me that I did have a way to make a life and way in this world. Wasn’t much good at a craft, but I was strong and willing. I took whatever work I could find. Carried loads for merchants out by the coast, far from home. Sent money back to Rita, and you know, she waited for me. She did.” His smile grew.
“I moved lumber for shipbuilders. Cleaned decks and scraped ships clear of filth. Worked for glassmakers far out where the bigger churches are, helping lift the big pieces they fit up high in the towers.
“Did it for years, visiting back when I could. We grew closer, Rita and I. We talked about things that young people do. Dreams and such. I spoke of wanting roots back here—home. Didn’t know how to make it happen. Didn’t matter much. See, I’d fallen in love with a terribly clever woman. She’d been putting away every spare bit, septas when I could earn them, all for keeping. And she’d gotten to working with her hands.” He tapped the counter.
“Made this first. A piece, a promise. The idea that one day we’d own our own home, a tavern, a place for all those travelers I never got to be like to come through and rest. A home set in my home. Not a bad dream, huh?”
“No.” It was all I could say at the moment.
“Well, I set back out. Not for long this time, mind you. Got working till I heard word that the old tavern’d burned down.” He frowned, the light leaving his eyes as his face hardened. “Wasn’t the best of places, but it was a good one.” He cleared his throat and extended a hand, gesturing with a thrust of chin to the rag.
I passed it to him.
He took it in silence, polishing the counter despite no need for it. “We’d lost a bit of home and that shook me. Was starting to think I should take what money we’d put away and finally go somewhere else. Rita stood firm as any old oak, telling me she wouldn’t budge on the dream. Remember that, not much more stubborn in this world than a woman when she knows she’s right. Which”—he winked my way—“is almost all of the time. Least, it’s healthier if you live that way. Trust me.
“But she didn’t move. Told me we’d offer to buy what was left of the place, which wasn’t much. But she was as good as her word. Woman spent a day and a night at old Abraham’s door—foreign fellow from off far east who’d settled here. She stood just as firm and solid as she did before me, not budging till he gave in. That was that. Place was ours.” He sucked in a heavy breath before picking up his glass, draining it in a single go.
“So we took to it. I’d leave for a set or two, taking up most of a month. Come home with money and get to work rebuilding the place. First thing we did was put this”—he rapped his knuckles against the countertop—“in place. Built the rest of the Three Tales around it. Took us seven months all told. Most of the whole year went by just so in our labor. But, we’d done it, Rita and I.” He leaned back against the shelf lined with bottles and casks, crossing his arms and letting the day’s stress visibly leave his shoulders and neck.
“We’d made a home and we tended to it. And it went as well as you’d imagine for two young ones who’d gotten ahead of themselves with dreams and love. We had our mishaps. Nearly lost the place a couple of times to our own fires, unscrupulous folk, and a tax collector riling Rita the wrong way so as to catch the rough side of her tongue.” He shook his head and suppressed a laugh. “Bet the fellow still remembers that lashing. But her bark was always worse than her bite.”
I’d met my fair share of folk like that as well.
“But we held on.” His voice grew hollow, a tone I recognized. The sound a story makes when it’s about to change. When a tale turns on its head and you realize it’s not the happily ever after you expected.
This was a tragedy.
And I knew those all too well.
After all, I’d played my part in a fair few.
History would remember those.
“Comes to two years later. We’re doing fine for ourselves, but I’m running the place more and more on my own. See, Rita, strong as she was, was getting more tired by the day. She slept in later. Needed help carrying things. Wasn’t sure what was wrong at first. Thought she’d caught something ill.” He swallowed, taking a long look at the counter. “I was right, but I didn’t think things would go as poorly as they did. That’s for the stories, you know?”
I did.
“She grew paler. Lost the color of the sun in her skin. Her hair went thin, but used to be like, like…” He exhaled and tossed the rag beside the clean ones. “It was a dream. It was something.” He picked the rag back up on instinct, folding and kneading it much as I had. “No amount of money, nothing I could do. No prayers to Solus. The church. Nothing could turn away what’d come over her. I did what I could, I swear it.”
“I believe you.” My words carried more weight than I’d intended, reverberating through the nearly empty place.
That seemed to steady him. He nodded to himself. “I did. But, months came and went, as they do. After the fourth, Rita didn’t come back.” He turned from me, bringing the glass over to the cask and refilling it. “That was so many years ago, likely before you were born.” He took a large swig of ale. “But this”—he shook the rag—“is something to remember her by.
“When we fixed up the place, didn’t have much left over for the smaller things, the forgotten ones. Like things to clean. Rita laughed and just tore a patch from her old dress. Then another, and another, sewing them together. Easy, just like that.” He waved the cloth. “Then she set to wiping, still laughing all the while.” The barkeeper smiled, a thin thing trying to be more, like a gash in stone.
“And, well … that’s my story.”
I inhaled, bowing my head. “Thank you for sharing that…” I let the pause hang in the air.
“Dannil.” He held out his hand.
I took it, holding firm as I shook it. “And you know me by my reputation.”
He snorted. “We’ll see that tonight. I gave you a story. Expect some glorious ones back, the kind folk here won’t soon forget.”
“I promise you that.”
His earlier curiosity returned and Dannil looked over the counter. The man’s gaze fell on the blackwood-and-leather oiled case I’d set on the floor. “Can I ask?”
I nodded, bringing the case up and setting it on the counter. Its clasps snapped open with a hard metallic sound that I had almost forgotten from years past. An old treasure sat inside.
A thing of well-worked wood and polished to a gloss. The black of rich tar and the sunburst orange of dawn. The mandolin lay in two pieces, broken along the neck clean as hammer and chisel parting stone. Its strings cut by a knife as fine as glass. If you were to try to strum the strings, they would play one final note that would say a single word. A word for which there is no word but which could come to mean many things. Profound sorrow. Pain. Regret. Please come back. Begging forgiveness. And most of all, I’m sorry.
But the strings could not be strummed, so there was no word.
No more melody. The mandolin was broken.
And it would never play again.
I could mend many broken things, but not this.
I shut the case. Sometimes the price of memories is too great for remembrance, so the best thing we can do is close the door to those parts of our lives.
Dannil let out a heavy sigh at seeing the state of the instrument. “I’d have asked if you play but—”
“I don’t.” I returned the case to the ground. “But my stories have no need for music. I’ll give you one to remember.”
“Good. But for now, I’ll settle for an explanation.” He gestured to the restored counter again.
My voice was softer than a breeze sifting through low-cut grass, nearly inaudible. “There are ten bindings all men must know.” I hadn’t realized I’d spoken. Old memories and training had risen to the surface, drilled into me over time.
“What’s that?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Would you like a hand setting up for tonight? I expect a good crowd.”
He nodded and we set to work.
TWO
A DARK AND WILD WOMAN
Night fell over the village of Karchetta, and with it came another kind of stillness. The sort accompanying anticipation. The kind you knew would be broken, it was just a question of when. There was a reprieve in smashing that stillness with noise and reverie.
But the waiting could kill a man.
I busied myself with arranging the last of the stools, helping form a semicircle before the white-stone fireplace. The setup would allow me to move with ease and address the crowd.
Dannil moved with the efficiency of someone used to catering to large crowds, prepping tin platters with portions of toasted bread no larger than one’s palms. He spread small pats of butter over each piece, sprinkling hints of salt and pepper with the care expected of a chef. Next came thin fish, shimmering like slender pieces of silver and the size of my smallest finger.
The traditional snack within Etaynia. People within the region had a deep-held love for the baquerene fish, gutted and dried.
Dannil brought up a handful of tomatoes, slicing them into thin rings before dicing cubes smaller than a fingernail. He layered them just as carefully over the fish. A clear container, fashioned from glass, appeared in his hands with almost the same level of skill I’d displayed in producing my pen. It was shaped like an upturned bell, with a flat and narrow base that curved outward to form a wide mouth.
Dannil tilted the container, holding a thumb over the narrow spout. A stream of oil pooled in the crack of space left between, spilling thin bands over the pieces of toast.
I’d seen revered craftsmen who didn’t pay half as much care as Dannil did to that food. I watched without a word, fetching my staff and sling of books. My mind slipped into an old and familiar pattern as I flipped open the first of my tomes. Stories blurred by as I tumbled through the pages. I’d memorized all of the tales and information stored within ages ago. But there was something soothing in the process of going over them again.
I wouldn’t need to look at any of them in particular for the night’s performance. Good storytelling is seldom about the truth. In fact, oftentimes, it’s about the lies—the good ones.
I’d know. I’d spent years spreading several about myself. Because of them, I could travel the world without much fear, sitting wherever I chose and only ever being seen as a famed entertainer.
It was easier that way.
The door slammed open with a thud reserved for a drum. People spilled into the room, clamoring amongst themselves.
I feigned inattention as I peered at my books, but kept my ears trained on the smattering of conversations. The crowd’s mood and gossip would decide what story they needed.
“Terrible business, the things happening with the efante,” said a man somewhere in his forties. He was built like a rake, and thin and knotted-hard as some roots. His features were dark and as craggy as one of the men I’d seen earlier. They spoke of lots of time spent under the sun without reprieve. He wore thick clothing, weathered and the matching colors of the earth—browns and faded greens. A farmer, likely. “I swear it by Solus’ beard, one of them efantes will have us marching on our neighbors. Sons dying in fields, daughters left widows. Something’s twisted in some of those men—tainted. I’m telling you.”
