The First Binding, page 77
I thought back to Master Mender working it out rather quickly and felt pride well up inside me. If only one person could suss out how I’d done it, that wasn’t so bad a thing.
“So, what is it then, Ari-cha?” I appreciated Vathin for that all the more. Out of all the rishis in the Ashram, he was the only one who treated me like a friend. No, more than that, almost like an adopted son.
First, I told him of the walls I’d hit in my research into the Ashura. It hurt to keep the whole truth from him, but I didn’t need him judging me like Rishi Saira had in the Scriptory.
He stroked his chin as he mused on all I’d said. “That’s a new one. The Ashura hide in mountains, huh? And all to keep people from finding them? That doesn’t sound close to true. Why would they need to hide?” Vathin didn’t give me a chance to answer as he went on. “If that were the case, I wager you and everyone else would catch sight of them every now and again up in the mountains of Sathvan. Maybe out in Tharam, or Ampur?”
I nodded. “Most of it was useless.”
He arched a brow. “Most?” I waited for Vathin to press the point, but he didn’t. “Ah, I’m sorry, Ari-cha. It’s a hard thing when we don’t get the answers we want, but I’m sure if you keep digging, you’ll find something, ah?” He gave me a look filled with more hope than I felt comfortable ignoring, so I gave him a false smile.
“What’s wrong? There’s more going on with you, isn’t there?”
I sighed, letting some of the tension flee my back and shoulders. “It’s Rishi Ibrahm. Him and his cracked skull, I swear. He refuses to teach me the bindings, even though I’ve shown I can do the folds—something that I haven’t seen any other students be able to do, by the way.” I stopped and took a breath, remembering what I’d seen in the Crow’s Nest and how he’d reacted when I accused him of failing the students there.
I swallowed and felt my voice weaken. “He took me to the Crow’s Nest.” I let my words hang in the air, hoping the implication was clear to Rishi Vruk.
He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He did, did he? Mhm. Showed you some of the former students?”
I nodded.
“Ah. It’s a hard thing, Ari. I’ve seen some of them before, not that I make a habit of going there, mind you. And…” He cleared his throat and stared off to the stone lectern. “I’ve been there at times when some of the students crack. It’s never a pretty thing, and it’s something you don’t forget as a rishi. Worse if you’re a student at the time.” He sounded more like someone talking about a close friend dying rather than going slightly mad.
I knew enough not to push for a better answer. Whatever Vathin had seen deserved to remain behind the private doors of his heart until he felt comfortable enough to open them to me. Changing the subject would be the better course, so I chose that.
“He used some of the bindings on me. Treated it like a damn test.” I kept myself from telling him exactly what Rishi Ibrahm had done, though. “Master Binder told me to try to sort out the bindings myself—figure out how they work and the principles behind them. I think I have an idea on one or two, but even then, I’m not sure.”
Vathin interlocked his fingers and stretched his arms to elicit a series of small pops from his joints. A pleasurable groan left his mouth. “Getting old is tiresome, and the cold here doesn’t help.” He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “Principles are a tricky thing, Ari. More so with the bindings. But let’s start there, and let’s ignore the fact Rishi Ibrahm clearly told you to work these out alone, hm?”
I grinned. “Already forgotten.”
He opened one eye and stared at me before shutting it. “Didn’t say forget, did I? I said ignore.” Vathin grunted and motioned to shove me again but I’d moved out of the way. One corner of his mouth twitched, betraying the smile he wanted to break into. “You know what the foundations of the bindings are?”
I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yes. The Athir, the pillars of faith. The will to enforce your will on the world around you.”
“Mhm. We create our own realities. Well, as much as a binder can. But yes. Faith. A nebulous thing. Tenuous at best. Brittle or as hard as diamonds. Depends on the man.” He peered through two barely open slits to watch me. “Depends on what the man’s been through. Principles change with time, and they change the man who holds them. But what is faith? Some might say a man’s principles are tied to his faith. Defined by them.”
I nudged Master Philosopher with an elbow, keeping the gesture light and short of being painful. “Someone might say a rishi could get to the point without the prancing about like a show horse.”
“I suppose I could take an even longer time, hm? Since we’re just talking, that is. Or are we supposed to be discussing anything important?” Vathin’s face tightened to become a hard mask, but I knew the truth behind it. It was the face he wore when trying doubly hard to keep from laughing.
I played his game and relented. “Fine-fine. As you were, Master Philosopher.” My head stung and a spot of white danced in front of my eyes. “Ow.” I rubbed the part of my head he’d slapped with the tip of his fingers. The blow wasn’t close to hard, just enough to jar me.
“Don’t patronize me, Ari.” He cleared his throat and crossed his arms in mock frustration. “Where was I?”
I bit my tongue and kept from giving a clever answer. On occasion, rare ones admittedly, I could keep my mouth shut.
“Right. Ari, the way the bindings work are not just based in and on faith, yes? They have principles to which they apply. But what are principles if not a sort of faith—a belief?”
I thought for a moment. “Sure, but tell Master Mender that the principles behind properly setting bone are down to faith and interpretation rather than science and practice. That would go over well.” My tone dripped of a sarcasm sharp enough to cut the stone lectern.
He ignored the comment. “They are all ideas, Ari. Principles, ideas, connections. But are they ever truly set in stone?” He shrugged. “I’m not so sure. I know how the bindings work, but even then, I wonder still. Are they ever set? Are they?”
I frowned. “Aren’t they?”
He rolled his shoulders in a shrug more halfhearted than the previous one. “Maybe, but they’re set by and in the minds of men, no? Who says the bindings work how they do because of external principles rather than the ones men impose on them? I don’t know. That’s the thing about principles. Sometimes it feels like they’re held together by belief more than anything else. And man can believe many terrible or amazing things. Up to the man, I suppose. And what do they do with those beliefs?
“Oh, those can change the world. For better or worse. History has shown both to be true, history and the many who lived and suffered through it.” More of Vathin’s strength looked to leave him as he slumped against the wooden bench. “But for the bindings? I only know of them as I’ve come to think of them. I know the ones I do well enough to work them as I think they’re supposed to. And maybe that’s my problem. I’m too old and tired to think of them any other way. Maybe if I could … maybe they’d be different, and maybe I would too. Who knows? But the beliefs a man holds change him too—shape him.”
All things Rishi Ibrahm had implied, some clear as glass. And now looking at Vathin, I could see the strain just thinking of the bindings could put on a man. He looked years older than the already aged man I’d come to know.
“I think all this philosophy has cracked you worse than Rishi Ibrahm.” I knew he’d take the comment for what it really was: a light joke to make him laugh, or at least rouse him into a petulant action. Anything to lift him out of his tiredness.
His eyes snapped open and he eyed me askance. “Cracked, am I?” He grabbed his staff and tapped it twice against an open palm. “Back in my day, we had a way of dealing with students like you.” Another thwap of his binder’s cane as it struck the flesh of his hand. “I’d crack this proper across your mouthy ass.”
I grinned and adopted my most respectful tone. “That would be most improper, Master Philosopher.”
He got to his feet but I’d already moved across the aisle between the benches to sit down elsewhere in the room. Notably well outside the reach of his staff. Vathin stared at me for a moment before chuckling. “Not so clever now, are you?”
I met his eyes when I spoke. “Cleverness is like faith. What is it really? Who can say what makes someone well and truly—” I broke off and yelped as he set after me, whirling his staff overhead.
“I swear I’ll give you a reason to be admitted to the Crow’s Nest, you little…” I lost sight and ear of what he’d turned to saying. Mostly because I never saw the point in remembering what string of profanities people applied to me.
I’d earned an impressive share by that time in my life.
Too many to properly recall.
He eventually gave up the chase, tiring around the last rows of seats before he sank into the nearest one.
I watched him, not entirely certain if his fatigue was a ruse to draw me closer so he could make good on his threat of thumping me. Certain that it wasn’t, I went over to him and took a seat at his side. “Done trying to send me off to the Crow’s Nest?”
He grunted, which I took to mean he hadn’t ruled the idea out yet. “Stop bothering the elderly, Ari, and go make trouble with people your age.” The words held no edge or anger.
“I’ve done a bit of that too and it didn’t go well. Nitham?”
A thin smile spread across Vathin’s face but faded just as fast. “Wrong sort to make trouble with. Aim lower. Maybe someone who doesn’t have as much money and influence as he has friends.”
I glowered. “He has the influence and friends he does because he has the money to buy them.”
Vathin gave me a knowing look. “And that is all the more reason to not poke that particular bear and let him sleep. Go make trouble with women. I certainly did at your age.” He winked at me and gave me far too lecherous a look for someone of his age.
I stared at him, then frowned as I brought up my fingers and began counting on them. “How long ago was that? I don’t think we have a measurement system that goes back that far and—ow!” I clutched the top of my head.
Vathin pulled his hand back from where he’d struck me. “I barely tapped you. For a young man, you’ve a king’s sense of high drama.”
I opened my mouth to spit a retort but realized I’d prove him right if I did.
“Ah, he can learn.” Vathin smiled. “So while I have you quiet and willing to listen to an old man, let me give you another piece of advice concerning the bindings and Rishi Ibrahm, hm?”
I nodded.
“As touched as he might be up here”—Vathin tapped the side of his head—“the man is a brilliant binder. To make master by his age is no common thing, Ari. Not at all. Consider that he might know what he’s talking about and why he may not be rushing to tell every student how to work them, ah?”
I knew that to be true, but it didn’t mean it was something I wanted to hear.
Vathin went on. “If he wants you to be patient and show him you’re capable of learning, then do that. What do you lose in waiting sets, or seasons even?”
Time. But then, I’d lost that already. Years since Koli killed my family. Him and the Ashura. A chance to learn the bindings faster so with what time passed after that, I could master them. And that hardly mattered, I realized, because if I never warmed Rishi Ibrahm up to teaching me in the first place, I could hardly become proficient without knowing the basics.
I exhaled, knowing Vathin to be right. “I have to do something, though.” I clenched my hands several times, trying to work through my mounting frustration.
Rishi Vruk clapped a hand to my shoulder. “I know that. But sometimes doing nothing is doing something.”
I eyed him, wondering if that had been a piece of cleverly annoying philosophy, or something sincere. His stoic look told me it had been the latter and I relaxed. “Any more advice?”
He cocked a brow. “For you, I have a world of advice.” His mouth twitched, but no smile. “But for now, we’ll start small. Tend to your other studies. The Ashram isn’t as boring a place as you might think. There is a reason people study artisanry before moving to try their hand at the bindings. Devote time there. Some find new mental clarity while working with Master Conditioner … or they get some sense knocked into them.” He gave me a hard long look.
I grinned.
“… And some have it knocked out. Goes either way, I suppose. Work with Master Spiritualist. Take the time to meditate and improve your mind. Master Lorist. Any of them. You have the time, Ari, and the bindings won’t go anywhere. I promise you.”
I sighed and accepted the argument. “You’re right, Rishi Vruk.”
He collapsed further in his seat, sliding so far down that his back lay against the bottom with most of his body hanging off. A hand slapped against his chest, clutching at it, and for a moment, I thought something had gone terribly wrong. Vathin gasped for air. “Oh, Brahm above, did you hear him, oh Lord? I’m right he says. Never did I ever think to hear those words from a student like him. Something must be—” He broke off and stared at me. “Ari, putting your hands on a rishi, a master no less, is an offense at the Ashram.”
I pulled my staff back and raised an index finger. “Technically, good Master Philosopher, I did not put a hand on you at all. I did, however, have the tip of my staff make sharp contact with your side. Your ribs, if we’re being accurate, but for a moment as short as it takes to suck in a sharp breath this chilly day.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m beginning to think I’m a bad influence on you, Ari. Too much philosophy for an already sharp tongue can buy a man much trouble.” A light sparked in his eyes, one that told me he waited eagerly to see how much trouble my tongue could buy me next.
And knowing Vathin, he would use it to teach me a lesson if he could.
I cleared my throat and got to my feet. “Thank you very much for the advice, Master Philosopher. I think I’ll be going now to do my best at becoming a more diligent and attentive student.”
He grunted. “I think you misspoke the word ‘respectful,’ Ari. Try to become a more respectful student.”
I’d made my way toward the doors, lingering in the open space. “Of course, that’s what I meant.” I gave him a grin that told him I’d do nothing of the sort.
He returned a rather obscene hand gesture before I stepped out of sight.
I left feeling lighter than when I had come to Vathin. He always had that effect on me. I was grateful for it. The Master Philosopher had given me a path to process everything up until now and focus myself.
Maybe he was right. In time I’d come to work my way toward impressing Rishi Ibrahm.
So I took his advice and pursued the other disciplines offered me with the same fervency I had my training of the folds and in leading the sparrows.
If I couldn’t learn the bindings, I’d set about learning everything else the Ashram had to offer.
SEVENTY-ONE
BROKEN STRINGS
I took the following set of days to idle in my classes. I don’t mean to imply I wasted my time and didn’t pay attention. No, I let myself sift through them, absorbing information passively to see what sparked my inner fire.
Vathin’s advice hadn’t been wrong. The connection to the ten bindings and artisanry stood out as obvious. It pulled at me as a means of working my way toward what I wanted. So I stayed after one class and spoke with Master Artisan, discussing the possibility of apprenticing myself there.
It had been as easy as asking.
* * *
My first day in the Artisanry as an apprentice included the tedious familiarization with all the tools that went into the practice. Specialized engravers, tipped with diamonds to ensure they could carve into any surface. Chisels and mallets should you need to shape something. Ink pens, the construction of which eluded me at that point in my life but I strongly suspected were fashioned by the minor bindings. And of course, graphters.
Artisanry doesn’t involve a set of bindings the way the major bindings are concerned. It involves words or characters that symbolize simple meanings and can then be combined to elicit certain effects. The complexity of those increase by the artisan’s talents and understanding of them. Not to mention, their will and Athir.
To make an ice box, for example, a student would have to inscribe the characters or words for heat, direction, and movement. All of those would form a sentence of their own that funneled heat in the right direction and away from the core of the box. But that wasn’t enough. You would have to put in a level of control, or you would simply circulate all possible heat the box could manage to move at once. That would do you no good and create a dangerous situation.
So you worked in words for speed, managing how quickly or slowly the bindings removed the box’s heat. But how do you tell the box when to stop?
Well, if it’s not supposed to, you work in a word for constancy, ensuring the box continued this slow and steady process of removing heat to maintain a certain cold temperature at all times. That means it needs a baseline to understand when to stop moving heat past a limit, otherwise the box would grow colder than needed.
So, most ice boxes—the properly made ones, at least—have a character for ice engraved. This keeps the box at a temperature needed to freeze water and maintain it. Nothing more.
Artisanry was a language all to itself, in truth. And learning it took many a proper season. I looked at it another way.
As stories. And I quickly got to wondering at the stories I could tell with it. My first began with strings.
* * *
The season wound down to its end and we found ourselves facing Tharaan, shifting season, the time of year between monsoon and winter, where and when the world changed its face and things began to die.
