The First Binding, page 82
It would have been peevish and pedantic of me to have replied with a gleeful smile. So I flashed him a wide-brimming grin instead. The nuance matters.
His face drew into a more unfriendly mask and he muttered darkly to himself.
My stomach squirmed just a touch, but enough for me to recognize morning hunger’s demand. The meeting with the efantes could wait until after breakfast.
I went over to the barkeeper, having at least enough tact to wipe the amused expression from my face before I got too close. “I don’t suppose you’ve lit any fires in the kitchen to cook something for hungry patrons?”
“Patrons pay.” He’d replaced the scowl with a long-suffering stare, like he’d been waiting for something for quite the while.
“And I can.” I didn’t know why that had come up as an issue, especially when I’d offered to purchase a room the night before.
“Your woman couldn’t.”
I blinked and my mouth nearly went off without a thought, but I remembered myself and cleared my throat instead. “I’d thought the room paid for in advance.”
He shook his head and kept up the weighty stare.
I knew enough of the look to get his meaning. The sigh I’d swallowed earlier returned and this time left my lips. I fetched my purse and thumbed through it, wondering how much this would cost me. “So between a room for a night and the promise of breakfast…” I let the question sit in the air.
“An expensive room.” The man’s mouth spread into the smile of a toad.
Of course it was an expensive room. “Right, and for all that?”
“Thirty pewter bits.”
I nearly spat a curse but he went on.
“For the room. Meal, depends on what you get, but I’ve only salted fish, bread, and warm squash with butter so early in the morning. So, you get what I’ve got to give. That’ll be another five bits.”
The penalty for murder in Etaynia came in the form of public execution. However, they were a generous people and allowed the convicted a choice in how to die. You could choose between beheading or hanging.
The joys of freedom of choice.
Being fond of my neck, I reconsidered my violent urge. No easy thing considering the man’s smile grew to be twice as wide and many more times that in repulsiveness.
“You charge a lot for room and food, sir.”
He shrugged. “Leyon Dis Ario isn’t some small-town tavern and inn, sir. The Golden Lion has catered to folk that know the true value of things, and thus, this place. They pay.”
The true value of things never involves money. Anyone who thinks so is a fool who never lost something coin could not return, or had to make a bargain that cost more than any currency could come to in weight.
I fished out five Savone copper penes and pressed them to the counter. “Last I checked these are worth seven bits each.” I hope you choke on them, but I didn’t voice the thought.
He made no move to grab the coins. “Five, now. Haven’t you heard?”
I hadn’t, and the look must have shown clearly on my face for he explained.
“Savon’s at war.” The barman frowned. “Well, more like a bunch of skirmishes with Baldaen. But, it’s ruined trade flow between them, and both those countries are now cut off from trade with Sevinter and Amir as those two are going at it.”
I said nothing, knowing the state of the world was slowly growing worse. Governments tipped toward chaos as if pushed by invisible hands.
Or shadows.
I nodded in mute acceptance and pulled free two more Savone penes. My Etaynian coinage ran low, and I didn’t see the point of breaking it over some dickering with an ass. “Better?”
He grunted but took the coins and shuffled away. The barkeeper returned moments later with a wooden tray atop which was everything promised: a salted cod, not my favorite thing to eat, warm squash with a pat of butter already melting at its center, golden bread with a crust that looked like it’d give me a satisfying crunch. He’d added in a dollop of soft cheese that had the consistency of thick yogurt, and a mug of something dark as my hair.
I ate in the manner of a hard and long-weary traveler, which is to say, as nearly an animal save for using cutlery. The fish had more salt in it than cod, but I appreciated the touch of lemon. The cheese had more in taste than it did in smell, and that wasn’t a good thing. The only pieces of the meal one could consider satisfying were the bread and squash. The drink had bitter notes I couldn’t identify and a maltiness to it I didn’t care for.
The Golden Lion, it seemed, continued on prior prestige and had no worth in and of itself today.
I finished the meal and left without a word, returning to the city of Del Soliel.
* * *
The City of Sunlight lived up to its name in the morning. Despite some of the high-towering buildings of white brick and stone, golden rays filtered through every possible open space and illuminated the place with a glow reserved for springtime out of stories.
People bustled by already about their business. Vendors spoke over one another in frantic chittering that could have driven insects mad. Bright colors from clothing to vegetables and fruits were visible any side you turned to look. But I kept my gaze focused ahead to the large palace of stone that held a shade of white brighter than any other.
If you looked closely at some of the buildings, you could see where rain and age had taken their toll. Scuffs, maybe a yellowing of stone in places, and other stains closer to the ground that likely came from indecorous and indecent behavior. Like drunkards.
But the palace held all the color found in clouds out of a child’s dream, or from the faraway snows you couldn’t hope to see a speck of dirt in.
The way ahead was not barred, but a quartet of men stood under the archway. They weren’t garbed as clergos, bringing me a mild relief that I wouldn’t have to deal with religious zealots who happened to have swords in hand.
These men wore black padded gambesons, all sporting silver accents horizontally across their torsos. Their pants were the same dark color. None of them wore helms, but they hardly needed anything else from where I stood. The broad leaf-headed spears would give any sane person pause.
My sanity had long been up for question, and by now, I was sure I tilted toward the other side of it. I smiled and waved a hand as I approached the guardsmen.
They leveled their spears at me in perfect unison.
As a performer, I could at least appreciate the coordination, even if I wasn’t a fan of their choice of demonstration. I slowed my pace and brought my staff between both hands, putting more of my weight on it than necessary. My back hunched, though being so fresh in the morning, my body still had some knots from my hours of sleep. Though now I moved like a man many decades my senior, a part of my lower back began to believe the lie.
I hobbled forward, removing the tension from my shoulders and letting them slump further to give a nonthreatening impression.
The guardsmen didn’t lower their spears, however. At least they were dedicated. A new figure passed through the open gap between them. He wore a brilliant red the color of poppies. His shoulders were laced with gold embroidery and it continued over his breast to form the outline of a lion pawing at a small sun. His hair had been styled in the fashion popular among the gentry: long, oiled, and hanging loose to his shoulders. His mustache and goatee were trimmed neatly: thin, and pointed at the ends.
He stopped a dozen steps from me, like his mere presence would ward me off. “Name, invitation, and reason why these fine Alabrose shouldn’t skewer you where you stand?” The set of his eyes and jaw told me he wouldn’t hesitate to turn the men and their weapons on me. Being clever could only buy me trouble.
The truth, then.
I didn’t bother straightening my posture even though the cheap theatrics wouldn’t fool the man. It still made me seem less of a physical threat to the guards, and sometimes, appearances in the moment matter far more than the reality. “Storyteller. I have no invitation, but I’ve never needed one before. A quick run-along to your masters should get you the answer you’re looking for. As for your final question, the last time someone tried to put a lansa through me, it went poorly for that man.” It wasn’t a threat, but I made sure he caught the iron in my eyes when I spoke.
To his credit, the man was unmoved. “I asked you for a name and you give me a profession? Are you hard of hearing, or is it dumb, then? Should I simply tell them The Man in Red has come calling?”
I said nothing but gestured toward my staff. “I gave up my name long ago and dedicated myself to one thing. So much so, I’m known for that now more than anything else.” My mind adopted the folds again, but they were still the sort I’d been using since I came to Etaynia—the only kind I really knew anymore.
The sort fit for a performer, and nothing else. Certainly not the Ari Eloine had heard stories about. “Whent. Ern.” My hand moved over the head of my staff—one time it could have been considered a proper binder’s cane. I threaded currents of air around the tip, then repeated the binding, pulling at an old forgotten circle of fire. Bands of flame wove around the staff’s head and held, bringing a miniature sun to life before the men.
One of their spears shook, and I couldn’t tell if it was in fear or anticipation of piercing me. Probably both.
I remained as stone, letting the man at the front of the group sit and stare at the fire.
His mouth twitched and I could almost see his mind turning behind his eyes. “Ah. Not a storyteller. The Storyteller. Yes.” He nodded. “You will wait here, still, and I will go ask about what sort of welcome you are deserving, sieta?”
I inclined my head but didn’t snuff out the flame, leaving it as a reminder and a warning to the men before me just in case any of them decided to take matters into their own hands. My posture righted itself as I maintained the folds, holding the fire in place with little effort. What I had viewed as nothing more than an entertainer’s trick now brought a different feeling to me.
Comfort. Familiarity. And a fire of its own—the sort that comes with ambition, hunger, anger, and the excitement of passion.
A remembrance of what a younger Ari once saw in the flickering shapes of orange and yellow light.
My shoulders went square again and I stood proud, waiting for the man to return.
It didn’t take long and I soon spotted the thin-mustachioed fellow approaching in a brisk walk. His skin shone, letting me know he’d been sweating before I could make out the streaks of moisture running down his face. He stopped closer to me than before. “Please follow closely behind, sir, and I would be happy to lead you to your rooms for the duration of your stay. Please.” He gestured with a hand, though his tone made it abundantly clear he was anything but happy.
I also noted that he hadn’t stipulated how long the duration of my stay would be. But I fell into step and kept my eyes on the men at my sides. Like most people, I had a healthy suspicion and unease around heavy bits of metal that have a pointed purpose—like impaling me.
We reached the double doors of the castle, and I slowed my pace to take them in.
I stared at the dark grain, a color between chocolate and fresh earth. Parts of it had been carved away to create the scene of a young man, lean and half-starved, standing between a host of spearmen. A crowd watched, hands on mouths in horror, as the spear-wielders stabbed the man through the flank, back, and chest.
The man remained standing, and part of the wood had been painted to resemble red tears pouring from his eyes. Not even the blood from the man’s side had been colored—just what fell across his face. Despite this, he looked as if he stood outside the realm of pain, enduring this with a silent stoicism that demanded respect.
I kept the image in mind as we passed through and into the castle proper. More white tiles and stone made up the walls and floor, but I paid little attention to the rest of the details.
Men and women, all styled in the current fashion, moved by. A few of them slowed just enough to be noticeable as they cast looks my way.
I pulled my hood up before they could get a good study of my face and features, taking a small pleasure in denying them their curiosity. The more anticipation and questions I built around myself, the better. And sometimes curiosity is a safer shield among the gentry than actual armor.
For Eloine was right about these kinds of people. They were of fragile ego and prone to rash action when spurned. But, these folk loved a good mystery, enough that I knew they played a game among themselves revolving around it.
And so I needed to keep as much about myself as secret as possible.
My escort led me up a flight of wide stairs that sparkled like flecks of glass had been pressed into the marble. Under the light, they could have passed for diamond dust among a field of snow. The man eventually waved a hand at a room, motioning for me to enter.
“Your rooms. You are expected to answer any summons if called upon by the efantes, any of the priests, or the esteemed and honored guests currently residing here. Is that understood?”
I nodded without turning to face him, stepping inside instead.
“If you need for anything, there is a bell. Ring it, and a runner will tend to your requests.”
I ignored him and shut the door.
My room, as it was, would have defied the imaginations of any of the common folk. The space could have swallowed several of my old quarters within the Three Tales Tavern. Glass windows ran along most of one wall, all the panes boasting pictures comprised of smaller irregularly shaped facets. All the colors of the world could have been found in that glass. The staining process had been developed far from Etaynia and in the place that only now knew its name as Zibrath.
To have a wall of the substance, and all set to artwork, was a staggering display of wealth. A subtle one at that. For anyone else it would have been nothing more than something pretty.
The efantes had a taste for the foreign from the looks of it, and I hoped that would extend to me as far as hospitality would go.
The rug lining the floor had come from the same part of the world as the windows. Thick, lush, woven with the kind of age-old craftsmanship skilled workers vied for all their lives and could still fall short of managing. The piece had been trimmed in cream, creating a border around a brilliant blood red. The center had been decorated in gold thread to show a lion pawing at a rudimentary sun.
I had more chairs than any man could know what to do with, and I guessed their only use might come if I decided to throw a party.
Too much room for any man to ever be comfortable. It was like an ill-fitting cloak—too long across the shoulders and more material than you could fill out. You would step on the fabric and find it tangled along your limbs.
I made my way to the bed, setting my belongings down at one side. My hands went to one of the journals I always carried, turning it open with a brush from my thumb. An old and familiar story flashed before me and I smiled.
It was of a red-haired boy who grew to be a man many thought a demon. Partly on account of his odd hair color, but more so for the deeds he came to be known for and by. By the end of it all, they say he killed a prince. Some say a king. Wizard. Bard. Hero. A villain.
The world saw it easier to mark him both, none, and sometimes, pick between depending on the day. Only he knew the truth.
And now I found myself understanding why he never told us the true accounting of things. I shut the book, wondered how I would find the prince I was looking for, and how best to kill him once I did.
All while still needing access to their library. Whatever stories they had here.
A knock came from the door and I went to answer it.
The boy couldn’t have been past his fifteenth year. Dark of hair and eye with a complexion that said he saw little sunlight—an oddity for an Etaynian. Thin brows and just the shadow and promise of hair to come along his face. “Sir—lord?” He bit his lip as he realized his folly and thrust a plum velvet pillow toward me.
A sealed envelope rested atop it with two pieces of jewelry to the right.
“Ah, I was waiting for this.” I took the items from the pillow, but made no move to open the letter. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me who sent you and why?”
The boy looked at the jewelry and envelope in my hand, then me. The smile he gave me was a knife-slit in glass as he backed away. “Good day.”
I almost found the words to curse him, but thought better against it. If he’d been sent by some of the gentry, whatever I said would quickly reach their ears, then it’d spread further.
If you wish the world to know a secret, tell it to nobility, for nobody has more time to gossip than them.
I shut the door and placed the letter on a nearby low-hanging shelf. The first of the items was a brooch of burnished copper that nearly reached a shade of golden red. Its bulk resembled a sun much like that on the carpet, only solid, and more detail worked into the engraving. A silver spear ran horizontally through the heavenly body to complete the piece. I turned it over and saw the pin with which to fasten it to my clothing.
The other resembled a flower I didn’t recognize. Seven petals, each outlined in gold and filled with countless blood-red stones. Rubies, by my estimate. Its stem had all the curve of a serpent and held seven protrusions that could have been barbs.
Thorns, I realized. Though, I couldn’t work out the meaning of either piece.
I snatched up the envelope and tore it to free the letter.
To the Man in Red,
I caught sight of you moments ago in what now seems ages already. I am intrigued. I am waiting. Come to me.
The Lady Selyena
I stared at the letter, rereading it, then eyeing the brooches.
So, it’s to be like that, is it?
I fastened the copper-sun brooch directly between the points of my collar, pinning the front folds of my cowl underneath the pin. The red flower sat directly above my heart.
I’d come during the Game of Families, a formal event played out among the nobility. A time for courting favor and secrets. A time for plots. And for things best left unsaid where sharper ears hid. I’d never played it, and only knew the barest shape of it, but I’ve always been a quick learner.
