The First Binding, page 31
Most men will readily accept an easy falsehood from someone who helped them survive such an ordeal. Doubly so if the lie is easy—convenient. Complexity isn’t sought after when it comes to understanding, neither is truth. And the truth is rarely anything but complex.
“Said a name, I think. I’ve heard it before,” said the man I’d realized was Tiago.
“Could be.” I shrugged. “Hard to think on it when he pulled a knife on me.” I gave him a crooked smile.
That set him back and he matched my expression, going so far as to give me a nervous laugh. “Suppose that’s true.” Tiago then stared at the fallen man with the knife. “Wait, I hear you right in saying you know what these two freaks are?”
I looked to the pool of blackened blood pouring from the large man. “Demons.”
TWENTY-FIVE
SON OF HIMSELF
We spent the morning barring the doors to the tavern from the inside owing to fear of more strangers coming along. Every man who’d witnessed the attack set to the task of helping Dannil carry the bodies to the garden at the back of the building. All of us worked with the quiet sobriety that comes in the aftermath of murderous attempts and the weight of what we did in return.
Taking a life is never easy—no matter how practiced you become in the art. No matter how easily the motions may come to you in the grip of fear and self-preservation. It’s the lingering thorns in your mind and heart that sap you of your thoughts and cheer in the time after.
Our group dug two graves with an efficiency and single-mindedness that had us eschew any water or food Dannil offered. We labored until we completed the work.
Evening came to the tavern and the doors remained boarded, keeping us in as well as the silence that had grown between the men. And the quiet remained until evening passed into night.
I knew I’d have to be the one to break it. To bring something back to the Three Tales Tavern.
A sideways look at Dannil told me that it wouldn’t be an easy task. He wore a mask of tired resignation, likely keeping deeper fatigue of the mind at bay by burying himself in his work.
The trio of old men played out the same game of cards they’d been at for hours. No amount of trying or tricks would change how it would go. They were well past the kind of thinking needed for clever plays and the wit needed to make their turns exciting.
“We should open the doors. You’ve turned enough people away.” I kept my voice to a low and level whisper, but just strong enough to carry to the men in the corner.
Dannil didn’t look up from his polishing of the counter. His stare could have burned holes into the thick wood, and I knew, if he decided to glance at me, he’d be looking right through my face. “Don’t think one night will make much of a difference.” His tone made it clear he didn’t want to argue the point, but he’d have to hear me anyway.
“It might, and to more than just you or me or them.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder to the somber trio.
Dannil’s polishing slowed, but he didn’t look up at me. “Why’s that?”
“Because this place might be all that others have to escape whatever troubles they have. That’s what taverns do in the world. That’s what places where stories and music can be freely shared offer—escape. They offer respite. Freedom. We’re not the only ones who had to do and see a hard thing today.” I still kept my voice softer than usual, but I let a hardness creep into it.
“How many of them do you think had to watch two men try to kill their patrons today? How many had to watch blood be spilled in their home?” Dannil finally looked up from his work and, true to my guess, he stared more through me than at me.
I didn’t want to match the low anger in his voice, it wouldn’t go well. He’d sounded like he held on to a bed of simmering coals, not hot enough to maim you, but plenty enough to still hurt.
“The hardest thing anyone has to go through in their lives is exactly that, Dannil. It is the hardest thing for them. No one can take that away from them. No one can dismiss it out of hand. We are, all of us, given the difficulties we are, and it’s not our place to try to put the hardships of others into places of value. They are hard. That is enough. And they need a place to forget those hardships. And so do you.”
The rag came to a stop and Dannil’s hand clenched hard to it, balling the cloth up. His shoulders stiffened before he could hold no more stubbornness and frustration. They finally sagged and everything he had been holding on to bled out of him. “Rita would thump me into the next set of days if I ever gave grief to someone else having it rough.”
I said nothing, letting him come out of his pit by himself.
Sometimes people don’t need a hand to climb out of weariness and despair. They need an ear. Occasionally, saying the right things. But mostly, many need to be heard more than they need to be talked to.
And a storyteller’s craft is more listening to his audience than it is ever speaking. Watching them. Hearing the secret tells and yearnings of their hearts.
“I suppose this place would be better off if we had people making merry and drowning sorrows with friends and the like.” Dannil folded the rag and tossed it onto one of his shoulders, bustling away toward the back. “Tiago, Doniyo, Miegel, take those boards down.”
A chorus of protests erupted from their table, carrying more energy than the trio had managed to exhibit through the course of the afternoon and evening together.
Dannil put them in their place without even turning around. “You three put the boards up to keep trouble out, but now I’m wondering if all you’ve done is keep it in. Take those down, or are you planning to drink enough to pay what needs to be paid for me to keep running this place? Maybe I should be charging more than bits for beer?”
The elderly men burst into motion and grabbed hold of the boards with their bare hands, wrenching and leaning on them with all their weight. They succeeded in prying the wood free, nails and all, after a few groaning minutes of effort.
Dannil ambled back, pleased at their progress, but a shadow of doubt tinged the corners of his smile.
And I knew the unease lingering in his mind. Giving voice to it would help steer Dannil’s thoughts to calmer waters. “You’re worried about more men like earlier.” I had taken a moment to enunciate “men” as my mouth fought to call them what they really were. But talk like that didn’t go over well with godly men like those in Etaynia.
The Three Tales Tavern wasn’t a place for demons. Those belonged in stories, and that’s what Dannil’s home catered to—tall tales of wonder and magic. Of darker things and the monsters that filled them. But they were not supposed to walk in through the doors and try to knife your patrons. And once that had happened, a shadow of the event would always occupy some small corner of Dannil’s mind. A piece of it would always hold to the fear of … what if?
Two words, and for all that, they can be dangerously powerful. In the hands of an idealist, “what if” can lead to the kind of hope that brings a man to triumph over unbelievable odds and opposition. In the hands of someone resigned to despair, they can dig them even deeper into a grave of the mind. Something nearly impossible to escape. And I have been both of those men over the course of my life.
Dannil needed the former right now.
I reached out, laying a hand on his and giving him a strong and reassuring squeeze. “I’m certain the only kinds of people that’ll come through the doors tonight are drunkards and tired folk wanting food and a story. I can give them the latter … so long as you’re willing to fill their bellies?” I arched a brow and stared.
He exhaled and clapped one of his hands over mine, shaking it gently. “I can do that.” Dannil broke our hold and came around the counter to stand by me, keeping his eyes on the now opened doorway. “I’ll have to leave to fetch at least one of the girls for tonight. Word’s probably spread I’ve closed the place down, and that’ll keep some from checking and showing up anyhow. But there’ll still be people coming. Always is.”
No sooner than he finished, a group of men and women stopped in the doorway, the head of the line peering into the tavern and fixing Dannil with a look of uncertainty.
The man was dressed in loose-fitting homespun the color of dead grass. He had a thin, knotted physique that had gone hard from a mixture of not enough food and frequent heavy labor. He looked like he could have been someone’s young uncle who showed signs of premature age from a rough life. “Heard you closed up earlier today. That true or…?”
Dannil put on a smile broader than anything he’d shown me of late, shining and full of enthusiasm.
Feigned enthusiasm.
“Had some trouble keeping the place open in brighter hours is all. Too much to do, not enough hands.” Dannil moved back to his place behind the counter, gesturing to all corners and seats in the tavern. “Sit-sit. I’ll be with you. And tonight, our storyteller’s going to tell a tale that’ll have you talking about it for sets to come instead of gossiping about which of your sons will marry whose daughters.” Dannil fixed me with a look that made it clear I’d better deliver.
“What’ll it be? Hard cheese, bread with honey? Apple, and I’ve got peanut rattle. Small beer? Tall beer? Ale, water, wine? Olives and fish? Maybe a stewed lamb dish? I have peach butter, rabbit rugger. All things here fresh as can be. So, so, what’ll it be?” He clapped his hands, pounded a fist on the counter, and then wrung his wrists as if sheer hoping would get the growing crowd to order meals.
And his hope won out.
Cries rang of people wanting cheap and fast beers, first and foremost. Simple foods followed, hard and hearty. Cheeses and breads. A pair of men pooled coins together to treat themselves to fish. Dannil moved about as best as one man could tending to things. He didn’t stop, but did slow to pass word along to the crowd to get his working girls in.
In a town like this, everyone knew each other, and sometimes a word from a pair of lips to another’s ears was good enough to call who you needed.
The Three Tales Tavern had tipped from grave-like silence into a welcome commotion. It brought a different kind of warmth to the taproom that had been much needed.
As more people filtered inside, along with Dannil’s serving girls, I decided to allow myself time to finally weigh on what had happened.
More importantly, what the possessed man had said. He’d asked after my name. He’d known it, and he’d spoken in a tongue older than most around. Old Brahmki, something I barely had a solid grasp of, only able to parse in slivers. The language predated the modern spoken one of Brahmthi.
The fact one of the Tainted had followed my trail to the ends of the Golden Road turned my blood to a slurry of ice. All the years of subverting my name and deeds, twisting my stories, creating a dozen other heroes and villains instead had done nothing to throw those monstrous things off my scent.
Dannil must have caught something hanging in my expression because he passed me a mug of something warm and smelling of strong spices.
I eyed the drink, then him.
“Mulled wine. A weak one—cheap one—but it’ll keep you from getting lost in yourself. I know the look. And this has enough of a taste to rouse you for what you need to be doing—and soon, I’ll add.” He twisted to look at the spot where I’d performed before. The implication was clear: do as good a job as I did before, especially for the trouble that seemed to follow me by way of the clergos and then the two men who’d come for me.
Though, Dannil hadn’t picked on the reason the Tainted had come into the tavern.
I took his advice and sipped the drink, agreeing with the barkeeper’s assessment of how weak the beverage was. But it did its job in bringing warmness to my mouth and throat. It wasn’t long before that same heat filled my chest and made its way to the tips of my fingers. As far as relief went, it didn’t go quite that far at all, but brought me back from the errant thoughts occupying my mind.
I drained the mug quicker than proper and set it down with a barely audible thump.
The noise caught Dannil’s attention over the blossoming din within the tavern. He eyed me, then a group of people getting rowdy amongst themselves. “You ready to put on a show?”
I wasn’t. “Yes.” The muscles in my back stiffened as I rose from my place at the counter, and I hooked a finger around a piece of my cowl, drawing it over my head. I straightened, adjusting my posture with an old trick to make myself look taller—to take up more space than I actually did. The base of my staff drummed against the floorboards in a slow and rhythmic tap, almost like distant thunder.
Some of the conversations thinned around me, then silenced. A few of the laughs finally died off.
I had their attention again, and I meant to hold it for as long as it took to drive Dannil and his trio of old patrons away from what had happened earlier. And hopefully my own mind would follow.
A stream of murmurs, barely above a whisper of passing wind, still carried through the place.
I did nothing to quell them, moving and drumming my staff until I reached the place before the fireplace. Only, it held no flame today.
I looked to the candles sitting in their metal holders, fixed to the beams supporting the ceiling. Each bulb of fire hung feet above the patrons’ tables and it would only take the briefest bit of effort to change all of that. I reached out with a hand almost as if trying to pluck one of the bobbing flames between my fingers and set it elsewhere. The connection between the minute fires and the empty hearth formed easier than before, now close to second nature.
Already having a source for light made my work easier than having to kindle something from within myself. I closed my eyes and linked the two points in space, breathing the words next. “Tak. Roh.”
The world went dark as all of the tiny fires seemed to be blown out at once. A keen eye would have caught what really happened. Each flame bowed and bent as if pulled by invisible strings, leaping toward the empty fireplace. They rushed to fill a singular spot, bound there and quickly took to the kindling that had been left in place.
I kept no fire for myself or staff, letting what flames took to the hearth be the sole source of light tonight. Only the fire would occupy the patrons’ thoughts and sight. I would simply be a shadow telling a story and, hopefully, be further from their minds and attention. One evening of that wouldn’t be so bad.
My little theatricality had done the job, and everyone’s gaze fixed on the firelight.
“When I first told you a story here, I told a tale of a man known to every Etaynian’s heart and tongue. I spoke of a thing well-known, old and true, to this place and all those who’d call it home.” I banged the base of my staff against the floorboards once to make my point. Its hollow thud echoed through the place, commanding continued silence. “Now I take you far away to a place at the other end of the Golden Road. To a time before the path itself even existed, and no man could fathom that it would ever come to be. To when and where wild magic ran rampant and the world remained unformed to how it is today. Before the Mutri Empire grew to be rich and filled with gold and spice for trade.
“This was a time when a darkness, without true name, shape, and form, took the minds and hearts of men. A time of demons and without a way to stop them. Until he came to walk among us in a new aspect of himself. A son. A son of himself.”
And so I slipped into the story of how a god found the courage to walk among the world he’d made … and all the ill that he’d let be set upon it.
* * *
The world Brahm had made was perfect and all was well. Or, that is what he would have liked to have seen of his making. But, what even a god wants does not always come to pass. And so, the things he came to shape eventually fell to an ill fate.
Impurity and shadow came to fester in the hearts of all things but for the Shaen, fairest and oldest of all creation. But the lives of mortal men are weak and fleeting, and to this, a sickness came and in them grew.
Slowly, men and women turned on one another, but not in the ways you would expect. Not by sword or axe, hammer and stave—no. They turned to subtler ways of poisoning all good things. Their tongues spoke twisted truths, blackened lies, and their ears could hear no pleasantness or heartfelt cries.
The eyes of their friends saw darker shapes where once loved ones’ faces sat. People soured the waters of their own towns, leaving nothing but rot in the hearts and souls of others until they turned to harsher means, having only those turns left.
Villages fell. Out of place and time, and out of tongues and mind. We’ve forgotten them.
And Brahm watched in silent sadness, resigned to sit and see creation fall to what had happened between him and a child of his own. Something changed in him realizing this, and he took to course like he had not before. He set his sights upon the mortal world and to finding someone who stood beyond the dark taint taking men and women. And he found her.
Her name was Chaandi, for the silver light of the moon. And she did glow in her smile, her eyes, and in her heart. For there Brahm found a place of love and forgiveness unlike any other in this world.
Chaandi saw the twists and turnings of the minds and lives of those she loved, and she loved them still. She spent each morning, afternoon, and every night weeping for the twisted souls among her town. She wished them well, she prayed for them, hoping Brahm’s own light would come to wash away the darker things that dimmed their spirits and dulled their goodness.
And so Brahm came to her one night and, in her dream, bathed her in his light. He told her the truth of things. That he heard her pleas for mercy and forgiveness for those who’d strayed from the true nature of things he’d made. That they were not themselves and should be spared his harsher judgment. Even with what wickedness was in them, it was not of their own making. She begged Brahm to look upon those she loved with his own eyes as a man, not a god. To see as they saw and walk as they did, then maybe he would understand and do something more fitting for them.
