The First Binding, page 73
That meant it would pass through my atham, the space I occupied larger than my physical self.
Ten folds would have to be enough. Everything in me shaped the image of the stone zipping by to strike some point behind me. I didn’t know where or care. It would be enough to just keep in mind that the stone would act as it was supposed to.
No binding of Rishi Ibrahm’s would wallop me today.
The stone sank and I almost broke the folds, hands fidgeting out of reflex to try and catch the rock before it struck me. Something clamped hard to one of my arms and kept me from following through. The stone sailed overhead, striking somewhere behind me.
“Ow!” I couldn’t tell the student from their cry of pain.
It took me a moment to realize what had happened. Radi had taken my arm in hold, stopping me from trying to swat the stone away. I looked at him, asking a silent question.
He didn’t give an answer per se. Radi pulled his hand away and just shook his head. Whatever his reason, I had succeeded in stopping the stone from striking me.
I glared at Master Binder. “So, out of curiosity, how many folds was that? Six, eight, or ten?” I realized my error after I’d finished speaking. I’d effectively let him know the maximum number of folds I’d employed.
“Nine. Seems I was one short of giving you a good lesson again.” The grin he gave me made me wonder if he’d gone mad. His eyes lost their focus, but none of their shine, and his mouth pulled more to one side than the other.
“Is there a reason you’re so set against me?” I felt my temper rising and, for once, didn’t care so much about whether or not I proved the Master Binder right about me being quick to anger. “I’ve just as much right to be here as any other student. I demonstrated enough of that during my admittance. I can do a damn sight more than any in the class here, even if I don’t have a rank beyond Accepted.”
Rishi Ibrahm didn’t take a moment to think about what I said. “Maybe I don’t like your face. Maybe I think you’re too clever for your own good. Maybe both of those things. Maybe I don’t like city boys. Or maybe I think you need some of the hot air let out of you. Maybe a dozen things that don’t matter because I’m the rishi here, and not you.” His hand snapped into motion.
Eleven this time. Wait, no. That’s an odd number. But he’d said nine before. How in the world had he done an odd number of folds? Pain. Sharp, concentrated in a single spot as thick as my thumb, blossomed through the top of my skull. I winced as white streaked my vision. My hands shot up in reflex to clutch the struck spot.
Rishi Ibrahm still wore the same stupid grin from moments ago. “Clever boys think too much for their own good. And that’s your problem.”
I glowered at him, shooting him a stare so hot it should have scalded him by all rights. But my curiosity followed the anger and helped bleed some of the heat out of me. I took a breath to further calm myself. “How many folds was that, Rishi Ibrahm?”
“Oh-ho. So polite. So smooth and calm.” He waggled a finger. “Not buying it. Not. At. All. I can tell how angry you are. But, I’ll answer the question. That was thirteen, my boy. Thirteen.”
I frowned as he went on to cover another part of the lecture. Though I wanted to listen to what he said, I couldn’t ignore the odd number of folds he’d used. The way I had been taught them made odd numbers nearly impossible. Folds by their nature broke into evens. An infinite, if you had the mind for it, pattern of lenses all reflecting the same thing. How did you tack on a single extra fold? It went against their very nature.
Then it struck me. I looked up from where I had been staring, deep in thought, and locked eyes on the Master Binder.
“Oh. Has the little prodigy figured it out?” His face had readopted the neutral mask he sometimes wore.
“You tricked me.”
Rishi Ibrahm tapped a finger to his nose twice. “Got it.”
“Why?”
He arched a brow. “Didn’t catch that bit yet?”
I frowned, mulling it over. Then I had it. “To keep me from slipping into my own folds fast enough to counter your binding.”
He nodded.
“But why? Why any of this? I’ve shown you I can do a piece of the bindings. At least stop them. That’s enough to learn more, isn’t it?”
Radi’s hand landed back on my arm, squeezing harder this time.
I shook free of him, not wanting to be kept silent now. “Answer me!”
Rishi Ibrahm met and held my look for a long moment of absolute silence. The breathing of students was audible around us. Finally, he nodded. “You want an answer to that, then stay after class. We’ll talk.”
I hadn’t expected that, but it pulled the fire out of me as I slunk back into my seat. The promise of a private talk was enough for now.
The Master Binder cleared his throat and resumed the lesson. “The bindings work together, opposite ends of a stick or a string, if you will. Without the end or beginning point, the energy channeled will have no way to be contained. So, it runs on forever. That makes it useless. So, you have the composite pairs.
“Tak and Roh. Whent and Ern. Ahn, Ahl. Wyr and Ehr.” He broke off and looked away from the class, keeping his gaze on the distant mountaintops.
When he didn’t bother speaking after a handful of minutes, Eira raised her hand. But she went ignored for another count of breaths. Finally, she spoke out. “Rishi Ibrahm, that’s … um, only eight bindings total.”
He turned back to look at her. “Hm? Oh, yes.” His mouth twitched, but he said nothing again for the span of ten heartbeats. “The last two are ones he ought never to use.”
I barely caught his words, but at that, he abruptly ended the class and dismissed us.
I had been so close to learning the ten bindings’ verbal components, and now I’d only gleaned eight. But I had gotten him to meet with me in private. And I meant to get the last two from him if I could.
SIXTY-EIGHT
THE CROW’S NEST
I waited for the last students to filter out before approaching Rishi Ibrahm.
He paced in place, muttering to himself much in the manner I’d seen men do who were deep into white-joy.
I paused, waiting for him to stop. When he didn’t, I sighed and drew closer. “Rishi Ibrahm?”
He snapped out of his odd muttering and looked at me like he hadn’t realized I was there. “Hm? Oh. Right. You.” The Master Binder took a deep breath and just as much time in blowing it out through his nostrils. “Yes, right. The bindings. You wanting to learn. Stubbornness. Walk with me.”
I nodded and fell into step as he led me out of the courtyard and into the main field.
“You’re right, you know, Ari.”
“About what, Rishi Ibrahm?”
He ran a hand under his chin, scratching it. “About what you can do. You are more capable than some of the other students. Even if you haven’t ever tried your hand at artisanry and the minor bindings. Managing the folds as you can, as fast as you can, is impressive. More so when knowing how to counter one of my bindings so long as I don’t match you in folds. But do you know what the problem is?”
I shook my head. “No, but I have a feeling you’ll tell me.”
He pursed his lips and nodded more to himself than me. The whole walk so far he hadn’t even looked at me, keeping his eyes ahead on a spot I couldn’t figure out. “That’s part of it there. You’re. Too. Clever—quick, and always thinking. That’s a good thing at times. But not for here, Ari. Not here. Do you know what the bindings really take? Do you know the toll? The cost?”
That brought me short. I had already been thinking of what he would say next and preparing a list of possible answers. And now I had none. “No.”
“That’s what I’ve been getting at. You cannot shape and will the world how you want without consequences. Dangerous ones. And someone like you, all too ready to jump and leap and enact them … can court disaster. You don’t slow down. You don’t think about being safe. You don’t think past being right, or winning.
“Go back to the time when you learned the folds, then you might start getting the hint of what I’m speaking of.”
I frowned, thinking about what he could have meant. I had nothing, though.
“What was it like when you were learning under Mahrab?”
“Slow? Frustrating. He had me sitting and doing mental exercises. I watched a candle flame burning, trying to predict how it would ebb and dance.” I wasn’t sure how that fit in with what Master Binder was getting at.
“Mhm. And how much time did you spend on that? Did you learn it just like that?” He snapped his fingers. “Or did you have to sit, think, and change how you thought?”
“The latter.”
“And that’s what I’m not seeing here. I didn’t see it the day you arrived. Do you want to know what I saw?”
Part of me didn’t, but I knew he wanted to give me the answer anyhow. “Yes.”
“I saw a boy, running from trouble, and hoping to find something to hold on to here at the Ashram. That thing is the old stories of binders. Brahm, Abrahm, take your pick. Heroes lost to time and tales.” He waved a hand as if shooing away the thought. “You want power but you’re not ready to think about what that power costs—worse, what it can do. And I would like to show you. Come.” He motioned me to keep in step as he picked up his pace.
We walked well past the Scriptory, reaching the far end of the main yard. A lone tower stood in the distance, resting just before the face of a nearby mountain. And the fact it stood at all was nothing short of a miracle.
It boasted odd extensions. Stone rooms that jutted from the crooked center frame of the building. They should have fallen off under their own weight, and I had no idea what kept the other rooms fixed in place. The roof sat at too sharp an angle and every tile couldn’t hope to sit tightly where they were set. But they did, refusing to slide off and hammer onto the ground.
“Where are we?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead, Rishi Ibrahm just raised a finger to his lips. He walked on to the pair of doors leading into the tower. “This is the Crow’s Nest. Let’s go inside, shall we.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.
I followed the Master Binder into the tower, taking stock of the room we’d entered. It defied my expectations. Bookshelves had been built into the circular room, running from the floor to the ceiling, packed to the brim with books to the point the wood should have given way. Something held it all together that had nothing to do with expert craftsmanship.
“A binding?” The words left my mouth before I realized.
Rishi Ibrahm smiled. “Mhm. A good one, too. Organization of the books is a bit messy, though. Not bad for a student, no?”
I blinked at that. This was done by a student? A second look gave me a deeper appreciation for its construction. Every board fit perfectly in place without a single nail in sight. None of the wood flexed under the weight of books that would have bent and bowed normal shelves. “Who did this?” I looked to Rishi Ibrahm for an answer as I realized a gentle and warm current circulated the room.
“Him.” He pointed to a desk littered with loose sheets of parchment that covered nearly every inch. A cup sat perfectly balanced, tilted on its edge, leaving it a wonder it hadn’t toppled, spilling its contents onto the paper.
I waited for it to fall onto its flat bottom, but it didn’t. “Um, Rishi? Him-who?”
The Master Binder pursed his lips, then went over to the desk. A hollow thud echoed through the room and Rishi Ibrahm pulled his foot back, cursing as he grabbed it. “Ow…” The rest of his words devolved into muttering profanity I could barely pick out. “Wake up, you lazy shiftless lout.” He punctuated the statement with another kick at the desk, repeating the same mistake. Another string of obscenities peppered the air.
I stared at Master Binder wondering if I’d asked to be taught by an utter madman. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d shown poor judgment in looking to someone for guidance.
A long, low groan came from the other side of the desk. One hand rose from behind it and smacked hard to the table’s surface, sending papers rustling. Not a one scattered, though. The force of the blow should have sent some into the air. “Nergh. Brahm’s buxom bosom and bloody bottom, who dares wake me at…” The person behind the voice hauled themselves into view.
The student wore a sleeveless shirt of dull gray. Faint lines crisscrossed his forearms—scars—that hadn’t quite faded enough to lose themselves against the copper-earth tones of his skin. He had a short brush of dark hair. His eyes were the color of almonds under molasses and, while soft in their shade, they contained a jarring brightness that reminded me of something.
I looked to Rishi Ibrahm and saw the same spark and light in his eyes.
“Oh. Master Rishi.” The student frowned, putting a finger to his lips. I figured he couldn’t have reached his twentieth year yet. Maybe just a few short of it. “Wait, no, that’s not right. Binder Brahm! No.” His frown deepened and he looked down at the tilted cup. “What do you call yourself again?” The boy looked up, staring hard at the Master Binder like an intruder had just waltzed into his sacred place.
If this bothered Rishi Ibrahm, he didn’t show it. His face held more care and patience than I had ever seen. “I. Brahm.” He pressed a hand to his chest and emphasized the first letter. “It’s Ibrahm.”
The young man turned sideways, shooting the Master Binder a long skeptical look. “Today?”
Rishi Ibrahm nodded, but his mouth twitched before breaking into a smile. “And most days.”
“Mhm, no.” The young man turned back to face him and hooked a thumb to his chest. “More like Ubrahm. Get it? Like, You-Brahm. I think that’s you every day.”
Rishi Ibrahm’s lips pressed tight together for a moment. “Well, I’d hate to think then about my bosom and … what was it again? Oh, my bloody bottom.”
The young man laughed.
“And are you still Krisham today?” The Master Binder sounded as if he already knew the answer but decided to ask anyway.
The young man—Krisham, I presumed—shook his head. “Mostly. I did a few bindings and had to be someone else for a while. Then they needed a nap.” His brows grew close, forming a wrinkle in his forehead. “Or I did. But I’m mostly back now.”
I had no idea what he meant by that, but the Master Binder merely nodded his head in perfect understanding.
“I’m glad you’re mostly back to being Krisham. Maybe rest for a bit longer and you’ll be all the way, ji-ah?”
Krisham nodded. “Wouldn’t be so bad, but that means I shouldn’t bind for a while.”
Master Binder let out an affirmative grunt.
“Oh, well, that would be annoying. I have to unbind my cup to get my drink.” Krisham pointed at the cup perfectly balanced on its edge.
Rishi Ibrahm smiled, reaching out and taking hold of the cup. He closed his eyes and pulled the beverage free with no effort. “Well done. How many folds was that, out of curiosity?”
Krisham shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Sheru. He did it, not me. But I think he’d tell me to tell you that it was somewhere in the thirties.”
Thirty folds at least, and he’d said it so casually. No. That wasn’t what staggered me either. The young man knew the bindings and could employ them with such an ease he sounded bored talking about them. And he used them to anchor a cup. To make bookshelves?
It set my mind spinning.
Then I fixed on the name he’d spoken and turned to Master Binder. “Wait, does he mean Sheru the Thamori Tiger? The binder-warrior out of stories?” I looked from Rishi Ibrahm to Krisham, hoping one of them would clarify what they were talking about.
“The same.” Master Binder’s face was a solemn mask. “Krisham sometimes isn’t himself. But he usually comes back sooner or later, eh?” He flashed the student a smile, which the young man returned. “How many folds did you use for these, Krisham?” Master Binder pointed to all the sheets of paper.
“Hm? Oh. Only two. I don’t think anyone would want to unbind my papers and have them fly all over the place, do you?”
Master Binder shook his head. “No, I don’t. Have you eaten today? Drank? Did you read any stories and have good dreams during your rest?”
Krisham nodded to each of the things. “Well enough. I think I’d like to go back to sleep, though, if that’s okay?”
Rishi Ibrahm reached out and put a hand on one of Krisham’s shoulders. “Of course it is.”
Krisham thanked him, then turned his attention on me as if noticing me for the first time. “He doesn’t look like he needs to be homed here. Who is he?”
“A student—an Accepted. He’s adamant in having me teach him the ten bindings. Says he’s more than ready to learn them. He can muster up the folds of the mind, though.” Rishi Ibrahm sounded like he himself wasn’t quite sure how much to weigh that in my favor.
“Mhm.” Krisham focused back on his cup, setting it back at the odd angle from earlier. “He’s not ready. He doesn’t know why he wants to be a binder, but he thinks he does.”
Rishi Ibrahm nodded but said nothing.
“He’s too sure of himself too—too clever. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know and that’s that he doesn’t know quite who he is yet.” Krisham rocked the cup on its bottom, water sloshing along the lip but never breaking over it. “Ahn.” He released the beverage and it stood rooted firm on an edge, refusing to topple over. “It looks nicer that way, Rishi Ubrahm.”
The Master Binder inclined his head again and didn’t address the improper use of his name. “It does, Krisham. I hope you have a good rest. Let me know if you need anything or if Sheru proves to be a problem, ji-ah?”
“Ji.” Krisham let out a yawn and crawled back under the desk.
Rishi Ibrahm watched the young man for a moment before motioning to a winding and narrow staircase to our side. The wooden planks were much like the shelves in their construction … if you discounted every bit of the clean and seamless form in which they’d been fashioned. Every step was crooked in a twisting frame that looked like it hadn’t quite finished in warping its shape. I could almost picture a gentle gust of wind twisting the wood further to leave the stairs completely unusable.
