The First Binding, page 3
A woman, who could have been his wife, cuffed his shoulder. She hissed sharp enough to cut a groove in stone. “Shouldn’t be talking of that. Leave princely concerns to them and the church. It’s not for us. Solus knows who’ll hear, and what’ll happen then, hm?”
“Hoping to hear something grand, y’know? Something heroic. That’s the sort of stuff he tells. Least I’ve heard as such.” The speaker was a young man, not even in his twenties. He had a slender build and carried the smooth muscles of someone whose day was spent carrying out strenuous work. He wore a simple spun shirt and the breeches to match. Splotches of gray clay, possibly mortar, had dried along his hands. A few rogue drops peppered his cheeks. I caught sight of the scantest traces of the material along some of the dark strands of his hair. It didn’t do much to dull his boyish looks.
The rest of the growing crowd murmured similar sentiments.
“Want to hear something to wash away the ills going around. Too much foul and sad talk these days.”
“Wouldn’t mind one of the old legends, the things no one talks of but the church. Want it done properly by someone wanting to do more than preach. I’d like that.”
They were the same sort of folk and all of a similar mind. You’d find no nobles among this group—none of the burgesa. These were common men and women. And as such, they wanted an uncommon tale. Something of daring and heroism. Something to aspire to, dream of. They wanted legends. Proper ones.
The troubles and tribulations of their own princes brought them down. They wanted to hear of the nobles of old. A time when royalty fought for the common man’s good. Stories where the low-down—lowborn—rose high and walked taller than those raised in castles with silver spoons.
They wanted a story like Antoine, the farmer soldier become a prince of the sun.
I smiled to myself. It was a good tale to tell, and I’d do it in a manner that’d have them waxing about it for years to come. I stood, lowering the leather thong and books to the floor as I picked up my staff. It would be a crime to start the story early, orating with people still bustling about and making noises of their own.
No.
They needed to want it more. To be willing to hold their breaths in anticipation for my first words. The Three Tales Tavern needed to fall back to the stillness of when I’d first entered.
So I waited, a statue washed in blood. The oddest and brightest figure as the fire’s light washed over the crimson of my cloak and cowl.
People found seating to their liking. Some opted for the lengthy tables running along the far side of the tavern, sitting close enough together they’d rub elbows the entire night. Others moved to the farthest corners of the place, almost outside the edges of my vision. A string of folk passed by and made their way up the stairs. They vanished out of sight as the passage wound its way behind the fireplace, leading up to a mezzanine. Tables lined the edges behind wooden railings, offering those seated in place a good view.
Through it all, I caught wandering eyes and whispers. The kind I’d expected to hear and the ones I wanted.
“That him?”
“Looks like.”
“Has to.”
“Never seen someone like him.”
“The cloak … Haven’t drunk a drop, but something’s not right with it. And it can’t be me.”
“It’s you. Looks to be fine…” The voice trailed off as if reconsidering.
“What’s with the staff? He lame? Maybe he needs a walking cane?”
“Doesn’t look like it. See how he’s standing. He’s young and fit. Though, can’t make much of his face out underneath that hood of his.”
A young woman slipped past me while the crowd continued muttering. She wore a dress the mixed colors of autumn leaves. They blended together across her chest and waist so that you couldn’t tell where one shade began and another ended. Her skirt fell to just above her ankles. A sash, the color of pressed olives, was bound tight against her waist. The ensemble left her arms and parts of her back bare.
If anyone rivaled me in terms of grandeur this night, it was her.
Her hair was bound in a loose tail, coiled over one shoulder, with strands flitting free at her temples. She had the Etaynian complexion, kissed by the sun and smooth as river stone. Bright eyes. Full lips. The sort that gave young men all sorts of ideas.
She ran over to Dannil, throwing her arms around him with the joy a daughter might greet her father with. He returned the hug and leaned over to whisper in her ear, following with a nod toward a group of patrons. She returned the gesture and went behind the bar to grab a tray.
A pair of girls, dressed similarly, entered moments later. They skipped the greetings and set to the same task, doling out drinks and food.
I waited for them to placate the masses.
The people were hungry and tired. A day’s work had gotten to them. The world around them grew tighter with talks of scheming princes and an overbearing church. They needed a few moments amongst themselves, trading simpler stories. Talks of how their days went. Local gossip. Whose daughter fancies who. What trouble sons are up to. Rumors and things that made them feel connected, safe, and away from the larger problems in the world.
Minutes passed, slipping into an hour. I stayed on my feet the entire time. Fading into the backdrop was as much an art as performing.
The talks and hollering quieted to low rumbles after a while. People moved more languidly as the food and drink got to them. A couple of lazy looks passed over the taproom.
And suddenly people remembered the figure in blood red.
Eyes slowly fixed on me, and the old rumor-mongering returned.
I didn’t pay attention to it this time. Instead, I turned, brushing my cloak back far and wide as I closed in on the fire. My mind folded in half once again. I saw the division between both its sides, clean—unmarred, like fresh parchment. I folded it again. Segmenting emptiness into larger fields of nothingness. My mind blanked.
Only tendrils of vermilion, lining bands of bright yellow, remained. A sea of carmine embers sifted below it all. The fire’s light dominated every square of my mind.
Fire. It was as old as the world itself, coming to life alongside my people, who sprung up around it to tell tales—the first stories of the world.
I knew it. I had an intimate understanding of fire and the story behind it. I knew its inner workings the way a playwright knows their productions.
When you know something’s story, you know the truth of it—and the bits meant to be hidden. You know what’s lacking and where to find it.
Another fold. All sound fled my ears, leaving me deaf to the goings-on within the Three Tales.
The fire before me had a twin, bound deep in my chest. I pulled on it—tugged. It was the heat that comes with love, or anger. The fire that spurs people on in the face of adversity. The kind that fuels the pursuit of dreams.
I brought the grooved and knotted tip of my staff to my lips. A breath formed deep inside me, more in the pit of my stomach than my lungs. I tethered it to the countless fires burning in my mind. The image of my breath sailed upward, past my chest, where I envisioned binding it to the flame around my heart. I exhaled, releasing warm air over my wooden tool.
My mind folded again, and now I saw a dozen images of air bound to the head of my staff.
“Ahn.” My breath coursed over the wood in an unseen current. It flowed, hot as when it’d left my lungs, warming by the second. I tipped the staff toward the hearth, slipping the head into the fire.
“Whent.” My voice stayed low, hidden within the edges of my cowl. I held firm to the visions in my head, the belief that fire burned inside. The bands of breath around my staff were its perfect conduit. Of that, I had no doubt.
Unshakable belief that they were all one and the same. I kept to that.
“Ern.” I held the staff in the fire. Its fingers licked at the rod’s head, surging with serpentine grace to wind over and flow through the whisper of air I’d breathed. The fire held and twined, unfading.
I turned, planting the butt of the staff against the floorboards with a solid thump.
Every person in the Three Tales Tavern froze, forgetting their breaths in the process.
I banged the staff again. It resonated like a thunderclap.
Again.
Thunder.
A third time.
A heavenly boom followed.
The audience joined me, stomping fists and feet in unison with my beat.
I held my tempo until no other sounds remained but the drumming.
I stopped.
And the audience followed.
Stillness returned to the Three Tales Tavern.
I took hold of it, kept them waiting, eyeing them all without moving.
Their breaths remained still—distant.
I drew the stillness longer then, took a step forward, careful not to make a sound.
People twitched. Cast sidelong looks to one another. None dared speak, however. And just when it got to be too much for them, I acted.
I stormed toward the row of people sitting on the nearest stools. “So, people of Karchetta!”
The crowd shook and gasped.
A simple thing, but the little stunt roused them true enough. Hearts pounding, eyes wide, they were mine now.
I lunged to my right, throwing my cloak out wide to one side with a flick of my hand. The weaving of fire around my staff flickered as I bent low, placing its tip between my face and the closest patrons.
They yelped, collecting themselves the next instant. A low chorus of chuckles broke through the room.
“You want to hear a story?” I didn’t give them time to answer, leaping back toward the fireplace, twirling my cloak with practiced motions. “A tale of daring and bravery. Of men come from nothing who changed a world. Or at least … a country. Maybe even a place like here.” I pounded the base of my staff against the floor. “A place called … Etaynia. Home of the children of the sun—Solus. People whose skin he has kissed. Whose hair and brows are reminders of the nights before he came to this world.
“You want a story that reminds you of your old blood. The potential in you. The deep and boundless courage you know to be stored in all your hearts. You want to know, be reminded, that a little bit of Solus”—I brought the staff close again, breathing into the bands of fire until they blossomed—“lives within you!” The flare drew excited gasps and exclamations from the crowd before the fire resettled itself.
“That is what you want.” It wasn’t a question. Their hearts and minds were mine now, and I could tell them the stories they needed, and they’d nod and agree as if the idea was their own.
I let another pause take over. The people’s thoughts must have run wild as they tried to guess which story I’d pluck from their rich history. On what adventure would I take them?
Something jangled from the shadows, like metal against glass. Clear, crystalline it chimed and jingled.
A sound like a rain of iron beads on panes of frozen glass.
I turned to the source, ripped from my performance to find I’d been wrong about which woman rivaled me in grandeur that night.
I’ve told many a story in my life, been part of nearly as many, and she before me could have walked off the pages of any of them.
Hair, darker than a raven’s wing, fell behind her in thick and wild curls. A band the color of rouge ran through her black tresses. The ribbon wound down her head and around her neck, disappearing between her breasts. Golden hoops hung from her ears, hooking my gaze as they caught the firelight, and her skin was a shade lighter than the people of Karchetta’s. It was like sugar, cooked low and golden with spices, promising to be as warm and sweet to kiss and touch as it looked.
We traded glances and I nearly lost the folds of my mind, and the binding with it. The fire around my staff snapped and flickered, almost in rebuke.
Her eyes carried an unruly intensity, like a sea in storm. They were deep emeralds washed with sage and flecks of bright pear. The sash tied tightly around her waist mirrored them, enriching them all the more.
The woman’s outfit was the antithesis of mine. Her blouse was the white of snow, cut low to reveal her shoulders and tease a view most boys would flush at. Gold bangles hooped her wrists. They chimed every other step. She walked barefoot, ringing twice over due to the anklets at her feet. The metal contrasted the brightness of her violet skirt.
She hummed, low and long, with the clarity of silver and brass.
The sound threatened to rip me from the folds of my mind. My hold over my bindings wavered, the fire sputtering like it’d been doused with water. The unseen and ever-so-fine threads of air quivered as if ready to snap.
I had folded my mind enough times to risk a violent backlash should I abandon the weavings of magic so suddenly. Belief, once formed, must be held with an iron will … or it shatters. And adding another fold to solidify my workings could have meant losing my mind in an inescapable vortex of mirror images and twisting thoughts. Instead, I repeated my bindings more to bolster myself.
Her voice had robbed me of the audience’s attention. The woman’s lips, wide and full, quirked to one side in a smoldering smile that promised many things.
“Story and song tonight?” said someone in the crowd.
“Lucky twice over, seems like. Praise Solus.”
“Knew it’d be a good idea to come here. Said so, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
The patrons slipped into quiet murmuring, dismantling the atmosphere I’d labored to build.
I ground my teeth, glaring at the woman with a heat that dwarfed the fire behind me.
She returned the look with a dazzling and mischievous one I didn’t know how to process.
Instead, I cleared my throat in the hopes of recapturing my audience. “Praise Solus indeed! And with that, let us begin the story of his chosen son. The lowest of men, risen to heir of sunlight and first efante of Etaynia!” I blew a steady current of air into the burning staff. Fire blossomed to mimic the sun in miniature.
The crowd gasped, some clapping and letting all manner of raucous noises flood the room.
“I’ll sing.” The woman stepped over to the man nearest her, running a finger from one end of his collar to the other. “After the storyteller works his magic.”
She was poking—prodding—testing my composure.
Very well. I resolved to give her a performance she’d remember.
Let me risk another binding. To fold one’s mind—envisioning countless reflections of a few select images—was one thing. It took another kind of skill to push that aside without burying it, all to the end of convincing your brain to hold to another set of beliefs.
The workings tasked with imbuing my staff with wind and fire slipped to the side as I imagined half the world within me going blank as fresh parchment. A cord, fine as a lock of my own hair, hung suspended in my mind. It trailed from my lungs to my throat. I breathed out. “Whent.” The end of the cord left my mouth, fraying as it spread through the room, binding my voice to the air. “Ern.”
The crowd shifted anxiously.
I spoke, and the air bowed and rippled before my words. I gave voice to thunder. “Listen and listen well. For now we go back far—to a time before this was Etaynia. To an era when the lands to the east were at war, which spilled over into this fertile and prosperous country. When brothers to the south, across the Arrythian Sea, failed to answer your ancestors’ calls for help. This is the story of one man, of common salt and earth—with the sun on his face and in his heart. A man who’d stand up to any that meant harm to those who called these golden lands home.”
I slipped into the story as the Three Tales Tavern fell into the deepest stillness yet.
THREE
A PRINCE OF SUNLIGHT
To a time once forgotten, and not far from where we now stand, was Carmeaum. The heartland of what became Etaynia. A place untouched by neighboring wars, but that would soon change.
I lunged and worked the folds of my mind to hold more shapes. A weaker thought, but still taxing. The light from my staff ebbed, and a new light cast long shadows across the wall. The shapes of men arced through the tavern in vast armies, drawing the attention of the audience with long-drawn gasps.
Within this place was a man, strong of heart and mind, but not of back and brow. His name was Antoine.
He labored twice as long and hard as the rest of the men, never giving thought to anything other than the day’s labor.
And it is that strength of character that made him into something more.
Solus, the sun, took note of this and watched over the young man. Though Solus loved Antoine from afar, God Above never intervened in the farmer’s life. Even as the War of Shadows crept closer, great Solus sat idle.
And what a terrible time for him to do so.
For Des Embras—the Ten Shadows, first of creation, first to be forgotten—walked the world again. They took root in the hearts and minds of many men, pushing them to hatred and a war of conquest. Brother turned on brother. Kings looked with newfound greed to lands outside their grasps.
Ten of the shadows I’d cast grew in size, dominating the tavern wall until they held the eyes of every patron. A few huddled closer together. Some … averted their eyes.
Swords fell on noble and commoner alike. And people learned an impor- tant truth: All blood spills the same. And it colors all things the same sickly shade.
I stepped closer to the front row of the audience—shadows trailing behind me as I did. They swarmed over the crowd, pulling a few cries from the listeners. I worked a hint of my will into the folds, reimagining my firelight to take a darker tone of red, and soon the color of blood bled through the glow.
