The First Binding, page 33
And life’s a teacher of its own. The kind that cares little for one’s own thoughts and preconceptions—ready to smash them all and hand you a lesson that might be too bitter for your tastes then. But you’ll learn to swallow it. Or else.
Like a lesson on cunning women, who are never quite what you expect, or where you think they will be … or when.
I retained my composure as best I could as I stared at Eloine standing several tables away. She held my look, giving me a smile that could have stolen all the light in the room. And it wasn’t without wickedness as well.
She had changed her clothes to resemble the local style, if the local affair meant dressing as the nobility of Etaynia. Her dress was the color of dark wine, threaded with gold lace from her collar to her ankles. It had been cut low to give a view of her chest, but still high enough for what the Etaynians considered proper. The sleeves were wide and loose and flowed around her wrists. A thin belt of velvet, the color of plum, cinched the outfit around her waist.
It flattered her.
Eloine’s smile deepened as she noticed me staring. She reached behind her back and pulled free a small purse, giving it a shake.
My purse.
I narrowed my eyes and kept my mouth from twisting wholly into a scowl, but I’m certain some measure of one made its way across my face.
She tilted her head toward a more secluded corner of the taproom, giving me a knowing look as she moved in that direction.
I moved through the crowd, gently brushing away the few hands that reached out to clap me or grab my arm for attention. The crowd would forget about me and my performance soon enough, turning to their drinks and food and the closer comforts.
That’s the nature of things. Old and familiar comforts will always take the place of new and fanciful delights. The latter are fleeting to the minds of most men and women. The former are buried deep in us, no matter how trivial. And as the world changes, and dark things come, the old thoughts and simple pleasures oft keep us rooted to weather the storms of time and change.
I reached the end of the barroom where Eloine stood. None of the clamor and commotion at the head of the tavern reached us as intensely back here. It took me a moment to find the words to say to her, and I admit I didn’t have the best of them. “You left in the morning.”
She looked away. “I do that sometimes.”
“But you came back tonight.”
Eloine still didn’t meet my eyes. “I do that too.” She passed the purse over to me. “Thank you for letting me borrow this.”
I took the purse and noticed a difference in its weight—lighter than before. One of my brows arched as I stowed what remained of my money in one of the folds of my robe. “Borrow is an interesting choice of words. From where I was sleeping, it seems so much so like you took it without my knowing.”
She gave me an uneven grin. “From where you were sleeping, you seemed rather content whether I took the purse or not.”
I frowned. “That’s a very fine dress. The sort I’m certain some hefty coin could play some part in acquiring.”
Her smile evened out and she gave me a curtsy fit for the nobility here. “Do you like it?”
“I do.” There was no point in lying.
“And it didn’t cost what you think.” Eloine brushed a few locks of hair out from in front of her face. “Only a bit of coin, a hint of favor, and a lot of charm.” A lascivious heat flooded her eyes and the curve of her mouth.
I blew out a breath more in resignation than frustration. “And you can be charming on occasion.”
It was her turn to arch a brow now. “On occasion?” She eyed me askance.
“Theft of my purse may have dulled that a bit.”
She pouted and feigned a wounded look. “Oh, dear. I’ll have to remedy that, I suppose.”
I finally managed a weak smile of my own. “I suppose so.”
“If it helps, I was in great need of your purse, and I brought it back more or less.”
“Certainly less.” I patted the spot where I’d stowed my coin. “And you needed it to buy a dress.”
“A woman’s dress is no small thing. And, if you must know, I needed to buy myself out of something more than into something.”
I waited for her to elaborate.
“Trouble is a particularly troublesome thing, especially when trying to get yourself out of it. It’s easier by far to get into it. It has an odd nature.”
I knew that one from experience. “And what trouble is this?” I couldn’t fathom what else she could have gotten herself into in the country.
Eloine reached out and tapped the tip of my nose twice. “The kind you need not worry about any longer. I believe we can rest easy for a time on that account.”
I squinted, struggling to believe she’d gotten us out of what we’d stirred up with the clergos—with a justice at that. “And I thought it was my job to tell the stories. I’d love to hear how you’ve done what you say you have.” I smirked.
She held out a hand for me to take as she slipped away.
I quickly reached out, grabbing hold of it.
“You’re quite right. Here I thought we were listening to your story, Ari.” She’d done me the kindness of at least saying my name in a whisper so I could be sure no one heard a piece of it. Eloine continued leading me away, taking me to the door of the tavern, then out into the night.
The moon hung full above and the stars shadowed it, running far and wide across the sky.
“Tell me more of it as we walk?” Her voice held no command, just the honest curiosity of wanting to hear more of my story. She pulled my hand down to her side and interlaced her fingers with mine.
How could I say no?
I cleared my throat and spoke. “I’d lost my family, everything I’d ever known, and the only place I’d been able to think of as home. I’d seen and learned a piece of real magic. I watched storybook monsters come to life and take all but my life from me. But they came close enough. And I didn’t know what else to do but to keep running. Eventually, I made my way into a new family. One rife with secrets, dangers, knives, and all the promise of revenge a young boy could ask for.”
TWENTY-SIX
THE COST OF KINDNESS
The streets of Abhar are not kind to lost and youthful souls. They’re a maze of winding stone walls and narrow passages only the initiated can navigate—ones like Nisha. And I had no idea where she could be this night.
Any adults with a shred of sense had taken shelter during the storm, and the only ones out at this time of night were not the kind of people I’d want to cross paths with. I knew little of the world outside the understage, but I knew that much, at least.
The rough debris nestled into the dirt of the back alley paths cut into my feet, yet the pain came from a place further from me than the thunder overhead. It was more of an awareness I’d been hurt than the heat of a wound itself. My feet slapped just as hard against the ground, pushing me farther down the path.
All I could see were cold walls, nearly black themselves under the night, and they looked to narrow the farther I ran. A rod of tight agony shot through my calf down into my heel, strong enough I couldn’t help but register it in my manic state. I stumbled and battered my shoulder against unforgiving stone. A small grace and bit of luck kept the impact from pulling my joint from the socket.
I rocked to one side, still unsure of what had caused the lance of pain through my leg. My mind remained in a frenzy, however, and I hobbled forward until I could continue my run. And not once did I lose the book Mahrab had gifted me.
The wet air did little to assuage the burning in my lungs. For all that, I could have been breathing the hot and dry air near a fire. My chest ached. Moisture blurred my vision, and it had nothing to do with the rain.
I ran through winding streets, colliding with odd lengths of wood jutting out from poorly constructed stalls and carts, until I couldn’t run anymore. Mahrab had taught me of the folds of the mind, of the candle and the flame, of many things to distance me from the things tearing me apart.
But in that moment, I could call on none of them. And I tried.
I could kindle no flame inside me. I lay on the ground, shivering, holding myself tight, aware only of every pelting drop of rain. I took and pressed my book against my chest, clutching it like it was the only piece of fire and warmth I could find, praying it would bring some heat to my flesh and bones. I knew it couldn’t, but a child’s hope is an interesting thing. It can hold out against all rationale and the hard things the world throws at us. It’s a trick against the harsher truths.
But sometimes there is no trick to escape the pains of the mind and heart. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but to sit in them until they take their toll.
So I did.
Fatigue offers a reprieve of its own. Being too tired to think, too tired to care, too tired to feel. Eventually, even pain leaves in place of a greater weariness. And when that comes, it’s welcome.
I used what little strength I had to crawl toward a small stall neighboring the mouth of the alley. It had been covered in sheets of waxed canvas to protect it from the rain, each piece fastened to the frame of the wood itself or quickly staked into the ground. I found a space where the sheets folded and forced my way through them, taking refuge inside until my thoughts grew to be too much.
I had no energy for sobbing. The rain and run had seen to that. Instead, I held myself as tight as I could, waiting.… Eventually, I slipped into the mercy of a deep, forgetful sleep.
* * *
A blunt tip jabbed into the meat between my ribs. I winced, flinching into a tighter ball as I awoke. The night’s toll had left me too stiff to get to my feet properly under the newfound pain.
Another prod. Poke. Then a jab-twist of sharp agony.
I cried out and scrambled away from the source. Mahrab’s book ended up at my back, stuffed into the space between my waistband and under the end of my shirt. I finally found myself able to gaze at the source of the jab without blurriness tingeing my vision.
The man could have been in his fifth decade of life, and a rough one at that. Even the shade offered by the stall, and the layers of clothing covering his head, didn’t spare his face from the toll of constant sun. His skin was the color of well-burnt sugar, and his face held all the deep lines found in men twice his age.
The man wore a loose collarless shirt that fell to his knees and could have once been the bright color of turmeric, but now was faded and covered in a thin layer of dust. He gave me a look equal parts resignation and curiosity.
“Oi, this isn’t your father’s shop, ji? Get up.” He reached to prod me again, but I kicked my legs against the ground, pushing myself up against the other side of the stall.
I raised a hand to placate him, and the man paused long enough for me to get to my feet. “I’m sorry. I—”
He waved the lacquered wooden rod in the air. “Who are you?” The man tilted his head to look me over, pursing his lips as he did. The rod remained pointed at me all the while.
I opened my mouth to speak but he spoke over me again.
“Why are you in my shop, hm? Turn out your pockets. Show me your hands. Open your mouth, thief, cur, ravel, rascal!” He spat each word in rapid staccato, barely giving me the time to process them in my dazed and tired state.
I did what I could, pointing to what served as my clothes to make it clear I didn’t even have pockets to store anything in. My fingers uncurled and I showed him my opened palms. All they held were calluses and fresh scrapes from the night before. Some grime and dirt courtesy of sleeping on the ground. And if he wanted me to return that to him, I’d gladly do so.
He looked me over with greater patience than before, though still with a large degree of suspicion. “Why are you here?” The shopkeeper bounced the end of the rod in one of his palms as if waiting for another chance to use it on me.
“The storm.” Each word came out through shaking lips and with just as much unsteadiness. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go last night. I’ll leave, I swear.” I joined my hands together in a silent gesture of both plea and promise.
“Why don’t you have anywhere to go?” The man stepped closer, and a smile crossed his face I’ll never forget. A razor’s line along a sheet of ice. Cold. Cutting. And utterly without warmth. A look filled with opportunity, hunger, and something I didn’t have a word for but bothered me deep in my gut. “Are you lost—alone? Where’s your family, putre?”
He may as well have jabbed my spine with that rod of his when he called me “son.”
I shook and took a half step away from him until the edge of the stall bit into Mahrab’s book, pushing an unforgiving corner into my back. “My fa—” The words died in my mouth as soon as I’d started, and I had no hope of finding them again, or anything close for a handful of seconds. “No.” It was as much of an answer as I could manage, and the man seemed to take it.
He nodded to himself. “Good. Good.” Nothing in his tone suggested he had anything good in mind.
I leaned away from him again, but found the stall only pressed harder into me.
Then came the question I didn’t expect, but should have.
“What’s your caste, boy?” His smile grew lecherous, the rod bouncing faster—harder in his hand.
“Why?” I placed my palms against the lip of the stall’s frame. With a little effort, I’d be able to push myself on to the first shelf and scramble away. But acting too quickly could get me caught fighting the canvas still draped over the structure, or I could tangle my limbs scampering past the mess of small lidded crates lining the shop.
“The ratheri sticks together, yeah? We’re the same brothers, you and I.” The gleam in his eyes told me he didn’t believe that to be true even if we did happen to be the same caste.
It was a lesson I may have been too young to learn then, but I learned it nonetheless. The kindness of some people in the world is conditional, and few things can be done to meet those conditions. And, in truth, those are the sort of people you shouldn’t seek kindness from. For they’re not offering the real thing, and they are most certainly not kind in heart.
Kindness is freely given, without the want of reciprocation, let, obligation, or lien.
And I knew telling him the truth would only buy me trouble, but I did so anyway. What worse could happen to me now? Monsters existed. I’d lost everyone I held dear. Everyone I knew. Everyone I could at the very least trust with my safety and to feed me. I wouldn’t run from what little I had left. My truth.
The words clumped like hard mud in my throat, but I forced them out regardless. “Sulhi. I’m Sullied.” Every muscle in my body tensed … waiting.
His shoulders sagged and he sighed. “I might have known.” Then he smiled. “I can’t help you, but I can help myself.” He took a step closer to me, raising the rod overhead. “I suppose it’s good no one will miss you at least. Koli-eiyah pays good prices for little ones like you no one’s looking for.”
Whatever cold hollowness had filled me the night before fled. Instead I found the heat I’d been praying for in the dark. It took me, fanning hot and angry in my stomach before finding its way into the tips of my fingers and the small bones inside them. I clenched my fists, seized by the fire, and screamed something I knew would carry through the street.
I threw myself at the man. Koli’s name had been enough to push aside all thoughts of how much larger he was than me, enough to cast the threat of the rod out of mind. I even forgot all of what Vithum had taught me.
Much the shame.
The rod came down at an angle, striking the soft flesh over my left shoulder, but pain too had found a distant place in my mind recently. And I’d endured my fair share of beatings lately.
I dug my fingers into the folds of his clothing, grabbing tight and wrenching with all the ferocity a frenzied child could manage. The fabric didn’t tear, but the man staggered. My screams would surely draw attention soon enough and he knew it to be true.
He clamped a hand over my mouth, wrestling for control of the situation.
I bit down, squeezing my jaw tight as I could. I tasted salt and copper—warmth and wetness.
He screamed.
I released my toothy hold and barreled into the man, doing little but sending him faltering back a step.
The rod came down again, this time glancing off the side of my head, though the blow carried none of the weight of the first.
My world spun, and though I had little in my stomach, I felt like heaving up whatever I could. I stumbled forward and lashed out blindly. My fingernails found purchase against the underside of the man’s chin. I raked as hard as I could, knowing I’d broken his flesh.
He let out another yelp, flailing with the rod in panic.
I caught another blow against the broad of my back, then a dull thump that struck Mahrab’s book, nestled under my clothing. The simple act of hitting the book roused another part of my anger.
I whirled and opened my hand, forming it like a crude blade. In the peak of my anger, I recalled what Vithum had told me about a sword being an extension of one’s arm. I jabbed out with my stiffened fingers and struck the hollow of the man’s throat.
In theory, the blow would have forced him to gag for air and leave him momentarily crippled. Worse if I had even had a training sword in hand.
In reality, the bones of my fingers ached and I found myself wincing from the attack nearly as much as the man.
He sputtered, a trail of spittle passing from his lips. But he made no move after me.
My chance. And I took it.
I turned and hurtled free of the opening I’d crawled through the night before. A petty part of me had the wherewithal to grab hold of the canvas sheets on my way out. I let momentum, my weight, and fury do the trick.
Several of the sheets resisted my hold, pulling against the frame of the stall and whatever boxes had been stored on top of them to hold the cloth in place. The overall structure held firm, but not without cost. Its profile shifted. The sound of splintering wood came from inside.
