The First Binding, page 49
Hokh realized that Abrahm then had not returned. Not at least as he once was—no. He had been taken and turned by shadow’s grip. She called the bindings to her mind and opened her mouth to cast them full.
But Abrahm had been born to bind and fight, and he moved as only he could. He stayed her where she stood. “Whent. By my mind and iron will, I ask you, Dinture, to fall still. Ern.” The binding raced through the land and held the kingdom and all in it immobile.
Hokh stood there, able only to speak and wonder how her teacher could have fallen so far. “Do not do this, Rishi.”
Abrahm drew his sword and drove it through his student’s belly. “I must.” With her blood on blade, did he speak, and another binding came to be laid. He knelt and pressed a hand to the white stone, staining it a red so bright. “I’ve kindled a fire that couldn’t hope to burn forever. But with my new knowing, I’ve come to learn a new power and can bring about a flame that will burn for all time. I’ve learned how to break the bindings we thought we knew. Let me show you. Whent. Ern.”
A black fire burned through the stone, spreading slowly through the kingdom. It spared only the courtyard in which Hokh and Abrahm stood.
She brought to mind all her teachings and freed herself from his hold all the while her home burned. “You’ll never escape from this. I won’t let you.” She placed her hands to her stomach, taking her own blood and turning it to her mind’s own fold. The binder’s magic now bled with her Singer’s gift of old. She sang a cry bright and loud, spreading through the land. She bound blood and song to bind him forever long.
“May everything that burned about you in Brahm’s own light, turn away from you now to burn as dark as night. May you be blackened in flame and turn away from all things as you did Brahm. So be it too with your name! Twisted and turned away from you!
“May your cloak and mantle of white go red as my blood, all that you spilled, to always remind you of what you’ve done!
“May your light dim and darken, let it wane. May even your own shadow turn from you at all times so you’ll know nothing and no one will walk with you forever—alone. May you never be able to set your feet to any one path, stay in any place too long. May you be set to forever wandering. Find no place safe to belong! I curse you, son of darkened flame. I bind you in blood”—she flicked drops of her own blood onto the once–binder knight—“and by song. I bind you to never be able to enter the place that bars the way to what you seek. I bind you to hold to only the bindings you’ve taught. Never able to create another.”
It’s said in that moment, Abrahm’s sword of moonlight burned a color. Like smoldering coals, more black than white. The blade warped and crumpled into something like pressed wood and stone. His own shadow turned away from him to look the other way. And his cloak of white iron ice turned red as blood. Then he spoke, “I’m not alone. I’ve taught eight before you. And to me their hearts are now forever bound. Nine kingdoms raised heroes. And nine kingdoms have we razed in turn. Nine of us eternal. Nine of us you cannot kill or burn.”
“Now you are Ashura—accursed—the nine twisted and turned from Brahm’s grace and light. May you be marked by all your sins, each and all of you. May they betray you wherever you go. Now, begone!” she screamed. And to her word and at her voice in trembling song, the man once Abrahm turned away and began to walk.
It’s said Hokh burned her blood in that binding in name and honor of Brahm, and in that moment, he gave her the strength to weave something new. This was a time long ago, and little else is known beyond what I’ve said here.
But it is believed she of Dinture watched her kingdom burn, then turned her mind and sights to where Abrahm had once made his legend. She turned to plains of snowy white, some think in thought that they reminded her of the white stones of home. There she’d come to teach future binders, and continue to bind the ways to something hidden deep there, so that none could pass and find what lay within.
Some say once her time as teacher passed, she went to teach others of the first folk how to sing the songs. How to learn bindings outside the ten never to be taught to anyone else but of that blood. Others say she went to join the Sithre. The first mortal to rise among them. And others …
Well they say as they’ve always done with stories, and twist and turn things to all manner of untrue tales. It’s the way of stories told wide and far. They all turn away from themselves eventually.
But of Abrahm, this much is certain. A man born to be a binder knight, stood firm and tall against shadow’s blight, until tainted and taken too, he grew to be untrue. And in this, he turned away from all things noble and brilliant bright. He became an agent of shadow, blackened flame, as dark in soul as night.
FORTY-THREE
HIS NAME IS MAATHI
The quiet that followed carried all the slow still silence of the world before a storm. Before the basso boom and break of thunder you know will come.
Then came the storm—an eruption of applause, every bit the tempest you’d expect. Mugs and fists banged against wood, drubbing a hollow drum of thunder instead. Then, the aftermath, and all the quiet that comes with that.
A silence in which to sit and appreciate what had passed. To take the moment to enjoy it without a word to disturb the now glass-smooth air and clarity within the inn. There is a pleasure in this contented quiet, and the patrons all saw fit to wrap themselves in it.
I should have let them. But, I didn’t know any better. So I spoke and broke the much-needed and appreciated stillness.
“You’re wrong.” My voice carried through the room, drawing all the irksome attention of a shrieking cat.
Everyone’s eyes turned to me, but they still respected what silence had fallen.
The storyteller raised a brow and nodded for me to come closer.
I did, dimly aware of another silence that weighed in tow with the rest. The quiet condemnation of judgment. I shrugged it free of my mind, however.
The storyteller moved to the lip of the small stage, sinking to his haunches before resting his bottom on the edge of the wood. When I neared, he motioned me closer still with a motion of his index finger. “And what, Ari, am I wrong about?”
“The Ashura.” I swallowed, unsure how far I wanted to press this point, and all while everyone could listen in.
The storyteller somehow picked up on my unease. That is the only thing I can still think to this day, because he reached into his pockets and pulled free a silver dole and waved it for the barkeeper to see. “As many beers as this can buy for everyone within earshot!”
The barman bustled by to grab the coin and rush to fulfill the order as the crowd of patrons broke into cheers and shouts. And so the noise returned, and the storyteller and I gained another sort of silence.
The one of privacy. The quiet space within a world of noise.
“So, how am I wrong?”
I took a breath, and then realized something still bothered me. He’d said my name again, and all without the slightest hint of how he’d come to know it. But pushing on that matter would keep me from the heart of where I wished the conversation to be. “You said there are nine.”
He nodded.
“There aren’t. There are only eight.” And I’d seen them all and counted them so. That night in the theater still came to me with a clarity not met by any of my other memories.
He brought the almost-empty glass to his lips, taking another sip of his ruhah. “And what makes you so sure? Because I know there are nine. I know this story the same way I know the story of every star Brahm breathed to life. I know it like the story of every stone, once larger, turned to dust out there in the deserts. There are nine. Always the lesser of one by the darkness that turned them.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that. I realized I couldn’t answer him either. What would I say? I saw the Ashura take my home, leave it in embers and ashes. My family broken and burned, all my life a crumble of stone, blood, and bone. I saw them. They of myth and nightmares.
So, I decided to press for the other question on my mind, then. If I couldn’t get one clear answer, I could hope for another. “How do you know my name?”
Another sip and he placed the glass by his side. “I looked at you. I listened. All storytellers eventually learn to do it. You can tell the shape and sum of a man by listening to his story. And you don’t ever have to hear him say it if you listen and look hard enough. I know you, Ari, like I know the barman took you for the price of this ruhah. It’s not worth half what you paid. It’s not aged. It’s not from half as far from here as it should be, and, it’s honestly just not that good at all. Now, look at me.”
I don’t know why, but I did.
We locked eyes.
In stories, this would be the part I’d come away with some newfound knowledge. Gleaned something that forever shifted my perspective. But, no. In truth, I just saw a man. A clever one to be sure, but still a man. I saw Maathi the same as I saw Juggi, or any of the sparrows. I saw the shape of his face even though I kept my attention on the color of his eyes. I saw the subtle line, fine as hair, running from the side of one brow to the edge of an eye. An old scar, now nearly faded.
“Answer fast, boy. What’s my name?”
I blinked, barely registering the question. The words left my mouth before I realized I’d spoken. “Maathi.”
He smiled. “First try. Impressive.”
I frowned, not understanding the trick of it. In my time with Khalim, I’d seen him feed lines in moments of need to actors who’d slipped. It happens to everyone eventually. I’d overheard him in games of subtle wordplay, doling out precious bits of secret information to see who was listening and committing things to memory, and who wasn’t.
I tried to think back to my time in the inn and where I’d heard Maathi’s name first spoken. The longer I thought, the cloudier my mind grew.
“Stop. You’re thinking too hard. You did it right the first time. You looked, you listened. There’s more magic out there in the world than the bindings, Ari. You’ll figure it out if you keep to your path.”
“And what is my path?” If Maathi knew this much of me already by first glance, I wondered what he could glean of my life-to-be. Not that I believed such a thing possible … but then again, I didn’t believe in bindings and demons once.
And I paid the price for disbelief and ignorance.
So what harm could come from asking?
Maathi smiled, but the cheer didn’t reach his eyes, painting the expression a gray and hollow thing. “Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? Every man’s path is his own. But the road often forks, and that is where you are. Do you stay the sparrow king? Do you steal secrets, sell them wide and far, growing your empire of whispers and coins? Or, do you remember the story inside here”—he reached out and tapped two fingers to the space above my heart—“the desire to trace Brahm’s footsteps. To learn more about the Ashura.
“Each man has paths to choose, Ari. And all choose or have them chosen for them. Some through bold choice, others through inaction. They let things happen to them. Which are you: the one who decides or has it decided for him? Never forget that people often let themselves become pawns in life. You’ve been one for a while now. What happened to the boy who desired bindings and all the stories the world has to offer? To tell them, trade them, and perform? Where is he now?”
A good question. And a shame I couldn’t find the answer no matter how hard I tried.
Maathi placed a hand on my shoulder, jostling me in what I took to be a reassuring shake. “You’ll find it. And in time, if you choose the way that leads you to it, come find me. The old blood speaks strongly in both of us, and you should learn to use our gifts.”
Our?
Maathi flourished a hand before I could open my mouth, the gesture stealing my attention and thoughts.
He rolled his wrist and a coin sprung from his palm as if it had sprouted from nothingness.
I stared, enraptured by the little trick.
“Ari.” The use of my name pulled me from the hand, but only for the briefest of seconds.
Another roll of his hand and he spread his fingers. No coin fell. Nothing.
I stared, then arched a brow, waiting for him to explain.
“There’s nothing worth saying but this, Ari. With but a few flashes of my hand, I held your attention. That is part of storytelling. There is a truth in tales, and a power. It resonates and holds people. Remember that. But there is something to be said for theatricality and showmanship. They go a long way in the art.” He folded his hands together, spreading them a second later. The coin had reappeared. With a gentle motion, he lobbed the tin chip toward me.
My hand snaked out to grab it. I closed my fingers around the piece, opening them to find nothing but air. How did he do that?
I looked back to Maathi, only to find as much as I had caught in my hand.
Nothing.
And no one.
Now that was a trick. I stared at the empty spot a moment longer, catching sight of the coin I’d thought he’d thrown my way. I smiled, scooping it up and storing the lone tin chip. I may have given up a pretty piece to pay for my story, but I came out with something more. A bit of truth and the realizations that came with it.
I stowed the coin, considering it a bit of fortune that I didn’t leave with empty pockets, and made my way out of the Zanzikari.
Maathi’s words had filled my ears and hung heavy in my chest. I had to make a choice, and one that would shape my life to come. One I couldn’t turn away from once I committed. I knew that to be true.
I stepped out of the building, letting the discordant rhythm of Keshum’s streets sweep over me. A soothing familiarity nested within the disharmony of endless movement all strung with as many colors as man could imagine. The noise flooded me, but none of it was able to wash out what Maathi had asked me.
But a single voice cut through all of that. “Spare a chip, sahm? A piece of tin for a piece of fortune?”
I turned to regard the speaker.
She couldn’t have been any older than me. Her hair hung loose and limp to just below the line of her jaw. A bandage had been wrapped over her eyes, and the color of the wraps carried too much of the street in it. Grime and dust. It hadn’t been washed in a while, and even if it had, the original white had long since lost its clean. Whatever injury prompted the covering was an old one.
The young girl wore a single piece of fabric fashioned like an oversized dress. It fell to her ankles and showed the signs of being all she owned. The hem had been stitched together, shoddily. Its once-yellow color had paled to a shade found in old and worn sandstone. A slip of a thing, she couldn’t have been getting much to eat with her lifestyle.
I had almost moved past her without paying a second’s thought. Something about her struck a familiar note. I couldn’t place where, but I thought I’d crossed paths with the girl. I knew her. At least, I thought I did. “Have we met before?”
She tilted her head like a dog hearing a sound for the first time. “Sahm? I don’t recognize your voice.”
And hers brought no memory to light either. I sighed, cradling my forehead in a hand. “Sorry. I just thought.”
The young girl shook a clay mug before me. A fragment of the mug the size of a fingernail had been chipped away from its rim. Tin rattled within, striking an oddly musical series of chimes as they smacked against the clay. She didn’t have a single copper to her name.
I lobbed my chip in to join the rest. “Brahm’s blessing on you.”
She smiled as the coin clinked along with the rest. “And to you. Would you like a piece of fortune, then?”
I stopped midway through leaving her, considering what she’d offered. Maathi had just given me a story about the Ashura. And with it, he gave me what I needed to hear—a choice and the remembrance of what I’d once set out to do and be.
“Please.” I inclined my head, feeling a touch stupid for it as I remembered the girl couldn’t see.
She rubbed her hands together. Somehow, more dirt and sweat managed to spread along her palms and fingers than I would have thought possible. “You’ve left a piece of yourself buried and behind. But it’s not something to dig back up. You need to leave. Go north. You’ll find and rekindle the flame to be at the Ashram. The place where magic and stories meet reality. If you stay here, you’ll grow complacent, and the man you once wished to be will die a surer death than if you try to chase this dream and die.”
I blinked, tried to swallow some moisture, but found my throat drier than all the sand and stone around me. “That is quite the fortune. And I’m not sure it’s a bit fortuitous.”
She shrugged. “Everyone has their gifts. This is mine. Listen, or don’t.” She reached to her side, picking something up and tossing it my way. “For you.”
The item sailed far wide to my left, heading into the street and busy throng of people passing by.
I lunged to grab hold of the object. It fumbled through my grip a few times but I managed to finally seize it.
She had thrown a small figurine of wood, whittled to resemble an owl just large enough to sit comfortably in one palm. It had been crafted rather well, bearing a striking resemblance to the actual animal.
I looked back to where the young girl had lounged near the entrance to the Zanzikari.
Today must have been a day for tricks, advice, and disappearing acts. She’d taken a page from Maathi’s book and vanished.
I let myself smile over the well-played move, though, and turned the figure over once again, giving it a better look.
Nisha had once told me something about owls and taking them as a good sign.
I ran a thumb over the carving and moved out of the way of the crowd.
Maathi and the young girl had both given me something to think on. Something that had been turning in my mind of late even without prompting. I had never been made for the sparrow’s life. Though I’d taken to it, I lived the role out of necessity.
But time changes the necessities of a man’s life. And it’d done so for me. Ari the Sparrow, Bloodletter, had grown out of this existence, and it was now time for another. And for an old promise to myself and Mahrab to be honored.
