The First Binding, page 20
One day, when I was deep in the practice of the candle and flame, another of the theater actors came to me. Hands fell on my shoulders and shook me hard enough to rouse me from the meditative exercise.
I opened my eyes, ready to spring to my feet and give them a proper tongue- lashing. I stopped when I saw who it was.
Vithum had just touched his twentieth year. Lean of body and sinewy, he had the build suited for a dancer or the slender yogis outside temples, and not for his art as a swordsman. His eyes reminded me of puddle water, a cold and almost colorless gray. A haziness filled their already muted coloring, and someone had once slipped that a snake had spat in his face, nearly blinding him. While his sight had been spared, the light of his eyes had been forever changed.
I wasn’t sure if I believed that, but if you stared long enough at him, you would begin to wonder.
I didn’t speak, unsure what the theater’s swordsman and fight choreographer wanted with me. He’d always been kind, even if distant and absorbed in his work and conditioning. But Vithum did not waste time on anything or anyone outside of his duties. He was as sharp and to the point as his tools.
“Ari-cha, don’t let Makham catch you sleeping about down here, ah?” His voice carried a hint of concern, but the coldness of his eyes and stillness of face served as hard counterpoint to whatever softness he tried to convey. “I’ve come to fetch you.”
My breathing had slowed its pace and I cleared my thoughts. “For who?”
Vithum smiled, the whites of his teeth shining brighter against the complexion of his skin. The darkness of his body could hold no more black in it no matter how many days he spent under the sun. “For me, Ari-cha. Your new friend, the jathu one, with the fire in his hands, has Khalim’s ear now.” Vithum placed a hand on his chest. “I don’t know what he’s been telling to Khalim, but Khalim has it in his head now for you to be on the stage. And we are needing all the help.” He frowned. “Money is bad, Ari-cha.”
I bolted upright. My chest heaved as I spoke faster than I could think. “Really? Who do I play? What role? When? Why now? Did Mahrab tell him about my acting? I played out some scenes for him, you know? I showed him down here in the understage. I did a piece about Jadir and—”
“Oi-oi, Ari-cha.” Vithum held up his hands to stay me before placing them on my chest. He patted the spot over my heart twice before doing the same to his own. “No thum-thum, yes? Too much”—he bit one corner of his lip, brow furrowed—“uurj bad for you.” His frown deepened. “What is the word for uurj in Trader’s Tongue?”
The Trader’s Tongue was the universally spoken language along the Golden Road, the path that passed through all great countries and on which caravans carried the wealth and offerings of the world. The Mutri Empire sat squarely at its center and was home to the richest resources—from spices to precious metals—and as such, it quickly adopted the Trader’s Tongue as commonplace among those who could read and write. Everyone else made do with the old tongue of Brahmthi. Or, it was reserved for the learnings of the wealthy, higher class and castes, and classicists.
“Excitement? Energy?” I didn’t know which he meant, but both of them fit the context.
He made a sound like he’d spat. “P’tch! Crude tongue and language.” Vithum nodded, mouth moving silently as if sounding out the two words I’d spoken. “Yes. That. Heart should be still for this.” He patted a curved wooden sword hanging at his hip. Vithum tapped my chest again. “Heart should be like water. Still. Then when needs”—he smacked a fist into an open palm—“crash-thump.”
I took a few breaths to steady myself. “Yes, Vithum. But what’s going on? What exactly does Khalim want me to do?”
Vithum’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “You are to dakha with me, Ari-cha.”
Dakha, the roving bandits of the wilds and open ways along the Golden Road. Horse lords, cutthroats, pillagers, and swords for hire. Every child dreamed of being one at one point, or at least the men who brought them to justice.
“We will train you. Then, you and me will give Makham a good thumping he deserves, ah?” He turned and swatted his ass several times, grinning with nearly the same enthusiasm I held at the idea of walloping that insufferable bastard. “Come.”
“What about my role here?” I got to my feet and gestured to the various contraptions and tools spread through the understage.
He waved me off. “Khalim has no more plays and stories for now.”
“None?”
Vithum shook his head. “Koli is making Khalim sit on his thumbs. Only studies, only practice, but no shows … now.…” He scowled and spat on the floor. My floor.
I shot a silent rebuke at him. It may have been a filthy hole of a place to live, work, and sleep, but it was mine. And Brahm would shit fire instead of birthing it before I let someone further muck up where I slept and ate.
Vithum lowered his head and gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry, Ari-cha. Koli’s heart is broken. He’s not a man. He’s something else. And his ma should have spit him up, not out.”
I had no idea what he meant by that, but I understood the sentiment. Sometimes in our hatred of things or people that is enough.
“Now, come-come.” And that was it.
My afternoons were spent with Vithum, drilling in the ways of the sword. I had once heard he had been a caravan guard, and that’s where he picked up the art. Someone else had mentioned Vithum had made it through the ranks of Abhar’s army, climbing to the height of officer before he slept with the wrong man’s wife. I couldn’t see either of those stories being true, but I also saw little other options for a Sullied man in caste and one with his coloring.
Abhar wasn’t a place where fairness ruled. And I would come to learn that in the time to follow.
* * *
My lungs felt like rags left out in the sun and then wrung further still. Every bit of my insides ached and my body wanted me to choose between standing upright and breathing. I compromised and threw my weight against the lip of my water barrel, leaning there for a while.
Vithum clicked his tongue. “Tch, tch, Ari. You get tired too quick.” He stood shirtless, skin shining from the sweat lining his lean muscles.
Too quick? We’ve been at this for damnable hours. Even the thought drained me, leaving me to heave for another few breaths. I scooped up as much water as I could fit in my palms and threw it across my face and chest. It did little to absolve the heat filling me, but I noticed its coolness for a moment. It was enough. The second plunge into the barrel brought me enough water to alleviate the dryness in my throat. “Ah-ah. I think we’re done with practice now, right?”
Vithum frowned, blotting away some of the sweat from his hard abdomen with his folded shirt. “You are never done with practice, Ari-cha, if you use the sword. Never.” But he didn’t push the point or me further. He inclined his head in a measure of respect, turning to leave. As he did, his arms moved with all the liquid and serpentine grace of a snake over water. His wooden sword blurred and I found myself lost in the motions much like the candle and the flame.
Enough time passed such that I could find my breath and recognize the depth of my weariness. But life cares little for that. Mahrab found me resting on a slab of cool stone in the understage, and he prodded me with the stick he’d taken from there not so long ago.
“Dozing off, are we?”
I pushed myself up, but didn’t bother to stand. “No.”
His face broke into an expression of mock wonder. “Oh. So you were deep in a trance, hm? Contemplating your lessons. Wondering and working on the many things I’ve taught you. Maybe you’ve found a way to lose yourself in the folds of your mind all on your own, hm? Maybe Ari has found one of the lost bindings and is secretly working away on it all while not telling his teacher, poor Mahrab—”
“All right, all right.” I raised my hands in a gesture begging him to stop. “I was resting. Vithum’s left me more tired than Athwun must have been fighting off those bloody Sura.”
Mahrab’s face lost all humor. I would have found more life in the stone under my ass in that moment. “And what do you know of Athwun, Ari? What do you know of the Sura?”
I shrugged. “Same as anyone else, really. Khalim never told me much about them, or their stories. I know Athwun fought them. People say they were demons. Conjurings of Saithaan before he fell to get back at Brahm for making people. They’re something like the Asir, only their darker counterparts. Athwun won against them.”
Mahrab’s face remained blank. “Did he?”
I hadn’t been exaggerating when I told him Vithum left me tired, and that included being too tired for superfluous questions and games. “Didn’t he?” I glared at him.
If my look fazed Mahrab, or even registered, he didn’t show it. “That’s a matter up for debate. But I’m not here to discuss that. Get up.” Something struck me in his tone. A whip of icy brambles may as well have lashed my back with how fast I got to my feet. “Good. So, you’re tired, hm?”
I decided it best not to speak lest my tongue get away from me again. So I nodded.
“Good. That is the perfect time for you to practice the folds.”
Some of my fatigue washed away at the mention of that. Some. My muscles still ached, and my stomach promised to gnaw through to my spine if I didn’t find food soon. “You’ll show me how they work?” I tried to keep my voice neutral and free from excitement, but my weary state left me unable to manage.
Mahrab’s expression softened. “Yes.” He gestured with a thrust of his chin back to the stone. “Sit back down now.”
I frowned, wondering if he’d bid me to stand only to see if he could order me around. But with the promise of learning of the folds, I didn’t really care. I did as he asked.
Mahrab plopped a leather satchel down at his side, rummaging within it until he pulled free a piece of rolled parchment. He spread it wide before revealing a bottle of rich black ink. The binder unstoppered it, taking care to tilt the bottle ever so slightly until a single bead of ink struck one side of the paper. He corked the bottle and placed it back inside his bag. “Now, what do you see?”
I told him.
“Right. Parchment and ink. Not so complicated, yes?”
I nodded.
“Not so hard for someone like you to hold an image of in your mind.” This time it wasn’t a question.
I agreed again.
“Good. What about now?” He took one side of the parchment and folded it over until I could no longer see the ink. Within seconds, I noticed the bead blot the fold under where it had been pressed. He unfolded the paper and showed me two splotches of ink now, still carrying a slight sheen. “Can you hold two perfect images of these stains? One on each side of your mind?”
Child’s play. I nodded.
Mahrab held up a finger, then folded the parchment another way. Seconds later, I stared at four ink blots. Before I could speak up, he’d repeated the action, and again. Now twelve. Soon more. “And now, Ari?”
I stared. Such a simple thing. Just blots of ink, but creating that many separate images of them, one for each smear, and all accurately in my mind? My brain ached. “Why?”
“Because, Ari, that is how you work the bindings. This is their foundation. The folds of the mind. It is not enough to hold a perfect picture of your subject. It’s not enough to gain a good understanding of them in the case of fire. You must be able to enforce their likeness through your mind as many times over. The fewer folds you can manage, the more difficult the binding. The folds represent more than your fixation and attention. They represent your faith. You must be so resolute in your belief you can bind what you wish, Ari, that nothing can question it. Nothing.” The last word fell like a weight of lead.
The air grew heavier in the moment before his next words.
“That is what the Athir truly is. The binder’s faith. Pillars of faith. For each fold you muster, you are showing without a doubt you will enact your will on the world around you. The more folds you hold—shape—the greater the binding and what you can in turn bind. The average binder to perform even one of the bindings can manage four folds—”
“That sounds manageable.”
He glared at me, the stick in his hand twitching. “All day, Ari.”
That sobered me. I opened my mouth to speak, but instinct drove me to turn and swipe the air with an open hand. The inside of my palm stung as my fingers closed around the stick Mahrab had used to swat at me. Vithum’s training had improved my reflexes and awareness. I smiled, holding the stick, and washing away any of the pain in favor of the smug satisfaction of what I had done.
Mahrab grinned as well. “Your body’s learning. So do the same for your mind.” He prodded the parchment with the stick. “I want you to hold those folds in your mind.”
I exhaled as my weariness returned. There would be no point in arguing for a longer break. “Four of them?” I crossed my legs, leaning forward to better stare at the blots of ink.
“All of them, Ari.”
All thought left me. And reaching for the clarity and focus of the candle and flame was more than I could manage that evening. “What? I thought you said a binder can hold four all day?”
“I did. Are you going to be just a binder? What’s the point of one day sending you off to the Ashram then, hm? Will you only work to master one of the bindings?” One of his hands tugged at his robes where the three braided cords of different colored string looped. “I’m not wasting my time here teaching you in hopes you become just a binder, Ari. You’re going to master them all one day if I don’t miss my guess.”
Master them all. A feat that would definitely put me among stories like Brahm, Athwun, and other heroes the whole world knew. And the dreamer in me reveled in the idea. Pursuing that meant going to the fabled Ashram, leaving behind a place where I was judged by my caste and trade.
I would be valued by the quickness of my mind and veracity in which I threw myself at things. I’d enter a fairer world … I hoped.
I looked back at the piece of parchment and counted over twenty folds. Twenty to picture perfectly in my mind, each as clear and separate as if they occupied a different mind entirely. Twenty to hold. And who knew for how long Mahrab would keep me at it.
“Right then.” I blew out a breath and set to it. I began with two, like the stones. Mahrab’s voice hammered into me in the background as I worked to expand the rooms of my mind to four.
Hours passed before I reached twenty, but it would be a lie to say I’d mastered holding them. I’d really only created the space and images for them in my mind. And then, hunger won out, my muscles failed me, and I collapsed.
Something warm and familiar trickled from my nose to my upper lip.
Mahrab passed me a piece of clean cloth. “Wipe that away, now!”
The harshness of his voice wrenched me free from my fatigued stupor. I acted as instructed, rubbing away the blood.
He snatched the cloth from me, muttering under his breath. The rag burst into flames and he tossed it to the dirt-layered floor. It burned there, throwing up wisps of acrid black smoke until nothing remained but ash. “Never, Ari, never let your blood be spilled and left in places where someone can get it. Do you understand me?”
“Wha—”
“Say you understand me!”
“I understand, Mahrab. I swear. I’m sorry. I don’t—”
He cut me off with a gesture. “I’m sorry. I was too harsh there. Ari, there are many bindings for you to learn, some of which have been long forgotten … but which have been found again. I won’t say I know of them myself, but I have heard whispers that others who’ve left the Ashram have come across them. There is a binding of blood, Ari. In the old days before the Ashram, before the Jadum laws were passed, binders did terrible things to one another.” Mahrab stared long and hard at the ground, the intensity so great I wondered if he’d bore holes through it.
A deep sigh of exasperation left his mouth. “The Ashram fixed a lot of things for us, including giving us the ten bindings all men should know. Maybe it’s a blessing we’ve lost and forgotten the others.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than me at this point. “Not more than fifty men and women can be admitted to the school of binding, Ari. Do you know why?”
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak without prying too far.
He exhaled again, resting his weight on his knees. “Time is a dangerous thing. Time makes a man better or worse. But what then if he has power? What does it do to binders over ages? When we grow too sure of ourselves and our ability to shape the world? Some of us went wrong over that passing of time. And parts of the world paid for it. The world made them pay in kind.” Mahrab’s face tightened into a thin smile.
“A child with a stick can be dangerous to a child without one. Do you know why?” He didn’t let me answer. “He can take the other child’s eye out. Maybe his own. Foolishness becomes dangerous when paired with a weapon, Ari. What happens if that child is holding a burning branch?”
“I suppose it depends on the child?” I wasn’t sure of my answer, but I hoped to lighten the darkening mood.
Mahrab gave me a patient look. “There is truth in that. Fine, I don’t doubt you would be responsible with such a thing. But what would happen if you passed it to a fool with no respect for it?”
I winced. “They might set something on fire.”
He nodded. “And what would happen with a fool and burning branch in a village of straw and thatched roofs?”
“He’d burn the whole place down, hurting or killing countless. At the very least, he’d destroy their livelihoods. I get it, Mahrab. The bindings are dangerous. What they can be used for is dangerous. And I don’t know what I don’t know. I’ll be more careful, and I promise to never let anyone get my blood. I won’t be reckless.”
He placed both his hands on my shoulders, squeezing me tight for a moment. “I know you won’t, Ari. But it still is the worry of an old man. Give me that much. Let me worry. We’ve not begun to show you how to bind, only the folds, and there are moments I realize what dangers I’m awakening you to. Let me worry.”
