《Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure》


 Chapter One: A Slip Away from Death

    Chapter One: A Slip Away from Death


    "Dreams are the mutiny of the common man."


    ~~Verse Ten of The First Binding


    <hr>


    In Port Cardica, every streetwise unbound must memorize three rules to survive:


    First, no thieving on Sundays. The Sisters bring food, but if anyone steals, no one eats. Second, don¡¯t cross the nobles. They need someone to blame for the city¡¯s unrest. It will be you.


    Third, a fool¡¯s prayer always follows danger, so if you plan to do something dumb, pray first.


    Tonight, Callam Quill was breaking all three in a brazen attempt to change his fate.


    He dangled from a cliff wall, fingers straining to bear his full weight. High above him stood his mark: a coastal manor with the gothic arches and spires popular among the port¡¯s elite. Waves crashed and frothed below. Wind whipped along the rocks, buffeting him as he searched for better footing but found none.


    ¡°Poet, save me,¡± he mumbled through numb lips. Freedom lay atop this cliff, yet he could see no easy way up or down. Worse, his strength was fading fast and his hands had begun to cramp. Stones bit at his skin. Wedging his foot back into a too-small crevice, he squinted to his left. Nothing there but rock, slick as seaglass. A glance to his right yielded no better route. Only one option remained: a handhold the size of his thumb.


    Heart racing, he pushed off, reaching out with his right arm and trusting his left to keep hold of the wall. His nimble fingers brushed the lip of the hold and bore down.


    For a moment he thought he¡¯d made it. Thought he¡¯d finish this climb, steal a spellbook, and fulfill his promise to his sister.


    Too late he heard a gust howl its approach. He felt the bite of the wind¡ªice against his eyes¡ªfollowed by its pull. Without proper leverage, he lacked the strength and dexterity needed to resist the wind.


    His grip flagged then faltered as he was pried from the cliff.


    ¡°It isn''t written!¡± he shouted while he slid. ¡°It isn¡¯t written!¡± The stanza was one of many prayers shared by the chapel¡¯s Sisters in lieu of lessons or love¡ªrepetition got him fed, but memorization had gotten him seconds, so he¡¯d learned them all by heart. Instinct kicked in and he threw his hands out.


    His calluses tore as he traded skin for friction on the rock face.


    Something caught¡ªall at once, fabric ripped, stone scraped against his abdomen, and the air was forced from his lungs. He lurched to a stop¡ªhe was left hanging like a rag doll, eyes shut tight against an avalanche of gravel that peppered him.


    Only when the rock shower had passed did Callam manage a labored breath. Trembling, he found a hold, unhooked his tunic from the rock spur it had snagged on, and clambered to a nearby perch. Debris fell from his matted brown hair.


    ¡°B-by the prophet.¡± He swore, his teeth chattering. He was shivering, stunk of sea salt, and hurt all over.


    More importantly, he had survived.


    A quick flex confirmed he hadn¡¯t broken any fingerbones, yet a cough brought about the sting every kicked street rat knew so well. Soft prods confirmed his fears: a bruised rib, maybe worse. He¡¯d seen beggars ignore similar injuries from fights or beatings, only to end up plagued by the stitcher¡¯s cough.


    It was reason enough to consider giving up.


    Not happening, Callam thought, finding his feet. I promised her.


    His sister¡¯s last words echoed through his mind: ¡°stand tall when others falter.¡± Now, after a month of preparation, a real chance at freedom was within his reach. If he gave up, all he¡¯d do is doom himself to a lifetime of serving those blessed by scripture.


    Siela¡¯s memory deserved better.


    With renewed vigor, he resumed his ascent. He climbed more carefully this time, taking breaks when his body demanded it, and testing each hold to make sure it was secure. By morning, he hoped to have a grimoire in hand and no longer be unbound.


    Claiming a spellbook was imperative. Binding Day was coming, and the ceremony would force all unbound seventeen-year-olds into a blind binding, with terrible odds of success. For years, he¡¯d watched na?ve orphans line up to receive their spellbooks, only to go from hopeful to horrified when the ink failed to take.


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    Won¡¯t happen to me. Callam reached for the next handhold, a knot forming in his stomach. He¡¯d never forget the cries of the orphans when their bindings had broken. It was supposed to be painless, yet shattered dreams never were. Those who failed the rite lost access to magic and literacy forever.


    Instead, they became Ruddites. Indentured. Sunken-eyed slaves to the tomebound.


    Focus, he told himself. He shook his arms out one at a time. The edge was less than five feet away. It was rumored that the guards rotated at midnight; after that, the grounds would be secure, so he¡¯d¡ª


    ¡°...that which is written,¡± a gruff voice stated from above.


    Callam flattened himself against the cliff, his pulse racing. He dared not breathe. Peeking upwards, he could make out the silhouette of someone walking atop the cliff¡¯s edge.


    ¡°Is foretold and forbidden,¡± another voice responded, completing the greeting. ¡°Alright, alright. Enough formalities. All quiet on the watch?¡±


    ¡°Quiet as it gets. Just sea, stone, and sand for miles. I¡¯ve slept less during sermon.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Better than the warfront or that blasted Tower, though, right? Two years, and I can still taste the stench of those¡­¡±


    The rest of the conversation was swept up by the wind as the watchmen paced farther down the perimeter. They hadn¡¯t seen him, that much was clear, but the guards were rotating now.


    He had to hurry.


    Two quick bounds and he¡¯d neared the edge, only to find that his chosen route came to an end just short of the rim. He could take a leap of faith or climb back down and find a safer path.


    Knuckles white from trepidation, Callam leaped.


    Loose stones fell from where he¡¯d kicked off the wall. For a second he was airborne, his hands reaching for the headland, sweat beading on his brow. Then he cleared the cliff¡¯s edge and clawed his fingers into the dirt above. His palms burned as he began to slide backwards, before a foothold gave him the support he needed to haul himself up.


    Pain shot through his ribs at the exertion. He clenched his teeth until it passed.


    ¡°Made it,¡± he wheezed. Thank the Poet. He stood gingerly¡ªhe wanted to check his wounds, but there was no time¡ªthe next rotation of guards could be coming any moment.


    He needed to locate the first of the markers he¡¯d memorized for this heist immediately. It would lead him to the estate''s collection of scripted grimoires.


    To his freedom.


    Keeping to the shadows, Callam wound his way through the grounds to an outdoor courtyard. The manor loomed in the distance, four stories of ivy-covered granite fading into the darkness. Windows glowed like watchful eyes. One flickered on, and he fought the urge to hide. Instead, he sped up, the grass squelching loudly underfoot.


    He hoped the creaking of nearby tree branches would mute the sound.


    Soon, he reached the open pavilion. Peering around a hedge, Callam looked for any guards¡ªto his relief, this area was empty except for a speaker''s lectern. A gold copy of the sermon¡¯s book laid open upon it.


    The first marker. Left to weather outside in a blatant display of power and wealth.


    The second marker, a manned tower with sentries on lookout, protruded from above a large archway at the far end of the courtyard. He approached with caution; these men stood vigilant in their watch. One leaned out the tower¡¯s window, his lamp held high against the dark. The other cupped a hand over his brow to better see the grounds. Both wore breastplates, and neither kept the long beards common among the city''s constables.


    Callam swallowed heavily. Slouching against a topiary, he prepared to wait.


    Seconds dragged to minutes as he watched for any sign that the sentries were distracted. Around him, it began to drizzle, then to rain.


    His heart thundered.


    An hour passed before his chance came: one guard turned to the other, and both leaned in to light a pipe.


    He dashed into the passageway. After rounding the first turn, he crouched and listened. No guards came running.


    The only sounds were the shifting of leaves and the pattering of rain. Lantern light danced on an arched wall to Callam¡¯s left while, across the way, black lichen grew on columns that led to a manor-side garden. Nearing the pillars, he noticed that the air smelled damp and sweet, like a barrel of wine left out in the rain. A small fountain gurgled by his feet, and he leaned over to drink his fill.


    Some tension drained from his shoulders.


    The wind held still. Silence fell, the type that all prey know. As if ice was pressed against his spine, every hair on Callam¡¯s neck rose. Someone was watching. Prowling. He was sure of it. Shadows filled the corners of his eyes; they stretched and wove and played tricks on his mind.


    He needed to run. Now.


    Shooting forward, he aimed for the plants that bordered the manor. His first step felt like moving lead, but each subsequent one came easier.


    Less than ten paces later, the storm picked up. The feeling of being watched passed.


    Callam shivered, taking cover amongst the foliage. There, he waited for his terror to fade. He¡¯d spent years on the streets honing his instincts¡ªit seemed those long nights had left him jumpy as well.


    ¡®Fear long enough, and it becomes loud,¡¯ he reminded himself. That stanza carried more weight with the orphans than the Sisters could ever know.

 Chapter Two: The Price of Dreams

    "Take their wishes or their copper. They need neither.


    But take their books? Rob them of their stories?


    That is how you rewrite culture."


    The Bettering of a Populace, Page 15.


    <hr>


    When Callam regained his composure, he began to crawl his way through the manor¡¯s undergrowth. Plants, laden with water, dripped onto his already soaked clothes. Eventually, he found himself in an open-air nursery.


    Up against one wall, a row of night flowers hung from planters and shone like little lamps in the darkness. Other flora bore fruits the likes of which Callam had never seen. He crept past them cautiously, glancing over his shoulder to ensure he wasn¡¯t being followed. All was quiet until a berry floated up and burst, filling the garden with the scent of candy. Callam winced at the sound, and then at the growling of his stomach¡ªgoing thirty hours without a meal wasn¡¯t easy.


    Still, he¡¯d endured worse, and he wouldn¡¯t risk getting sick by eating something unknown tonight.


    About fifty feet ahead Callam spotted the third marker: an outdoor foyer. Paving stones led to a pair of golden doors that barred entry to the manor and gleamed in a standing lantern¡¯s glow. They were guarded by lifelike statues; the first was a figure of the Poet, her hands clasping a tome, the second was a sculpture of a wolf, two cracked moons in its maw.


    ¡°Fire and folly,¡± Callam cursed as he approached the stoop. He could hear a buzz coming from both doors. Are they really spell-warded? he wondered.


    Callam had spent weeks begging favors and eavesdropping at taverns, yet he''d never once thought to ask about this type of ward. They were useless trinkets in the face of magic, deterrents kept by poor tinkerers and merchants. Never by nobles.


    With their grimoires, they don¡¯t need them, Callam thought, his mouth souring. The docks were strung heavy with the bodies of thieves who¡¯d tried to steal from the gentry. Callam had no intention of adding to their number, so he crept away from the doors, hoping to find another way in.


    He¡¯d only made it a few paces when a low growl reached his ears. Stopping dead in his tracks, Callam slowly turned his head, a jumble of panicked thoughts crossing his mind. This manor didn¡¯t keep hounds¡ªthat, at least, he¡¯d asked the taverngoers about.


    Another growl, deeper this time, like the sound of two slabs of granite scraping together. Callam tensed reflexively, but nothing happened. Scanning the foyer, he saw that there were no dogs, just the one statue of a wolf, an errant beam of moonlight upon its snout.


    The granite snout wriggled alive as Callam watched. Creases deepened around the canine¡¯s mouth, and jets of steam escaped its nostrils. Callam instinctively took a step back, then another, his eyes locked on the statue. The wolf''s whole body shook as more moonlight crept out from behind the storm clouds and further awoke it from its slumber. With a snort, the stony muscles in its neck contracted.


    Callam heard a scattering of broken marble hit the foyer¡¯s floor and knew the beast had crunched down on the moons in its mouth. He would have seen it happen, too, had he not already turned away and run.


    He sprinted back to the nursery, looking for some way to mask his warmth. Moonheart constructs couldn¡¯t smell and the rocks they had for eyes meant they couldn¡¯t see well either. They mostly tracked heat. Evading one, therefore, required hiding under something dark and cold.


    Glancing around, Callam saw a tree. I¡¯ll only strand myself, he thought. The nursery rooftop? No. He couldn¡¯t reach it. Even if he could, it might not bear his weight. ¡°There,¡± he whispered, and rushed towards a mound of dirt, his heart thudding.


    Too late he realized what the mound really was: a waist-high flower bench. It will have to do, he thought, and dove underneath it. Huddling into a ball, he covered himself with damp mulch. Hopefully, it would be enough. The wolf he hoped to evade; it was the guards he was worried about¡ªthere was no way they¡¯d missed the statue¡¯s ear-splitting howl.


    Seconds passed. Callam counted each one in his head, the waiting killing him. His leg began to itch from the cold dirt he¡¯d pressed onto his skin, and he struggled to ignore the impulse to scratch it. Worse still was the scent of the turned earth: it smelled like a graveyard. He hated graveyards.


    They reminded him of her.


    ¡°What is it, girl?¡± Callam heard the sentry¡¯s words before the footsteps that accompanied them. Two short barks and a rumbling woof was the response. ¡°Sense something in the gardens?¡± the patient voice asked.


    A blaze of red and yellow shone on the wall across the nursery. Callam guessed that the guard was waving around a torch¡ªfrom his position under the flower bench, he had no way to know for certain. All he could do was trust and hope he would not be found.


    Two more passes of the bright light. Two more stanzas mouthed by Callam for luck. Finally, he heard the guard say, ¡°Hush, hush...must''ve been a squirrel.¡± The man spoke to the statue as a boy would his dog.


    The wolf whined. A thudding of steps, a branch snapping too close for comfort, and Callam¡¯s breath hitched.


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    ¡°Anything there?¡± the guard called out, walking closer. Light flashed overhead, and Callam saw the silhouette of a dark pair of boots and pants less than ten feet away.


    Did they find me? he wondered. His palms began to sweat.


    ¡°Come, now,¡± the sentry said, with an air of resigned patience. ¡°Nothing¡¯s here¡­best we get you back.¡± Callam heard the clip of boots on flagstone as the man left the nursery. The scraping of the statue''s heavy paws followed shortly thereafter.


    After a minute of silence where no one else shouted or peered about, Callam rolled out from under the flower bench. He stood up and brushed himself clean, relieved his plan had worked. Even better, he¡¯d found a path into the manor. The torchlight had illuminated dark ivy that trailed up the nursery¡¯s wall, growing right next to a set of windows.


    Windows that he knew exactly how to open.


    Each was made of shaded glass and constructed from three panes. Callam was familiar with their style, as it was common around the docks¡ªfor reasons unbeknownst to him, the port''s pennypawners insisted on mimicking the fashions of the gentry. These windows were likely cut with greater precision and built from thicker wood, but Callam expected he could use the same tricks to get through.


    The secret is in the latches, he thought as he reached for the vines. Pieces fell when he tugged. These were not the thick, dirt-matted growths that blanketed deserted mansions; this plant had been pruned back and would struggle to keep him up.


    Still, Callam had no choice¡ªhe had to steal a grimoire before dawn if he wanted to leave unseen. He leaned over to pick up a pebble, then stood and grabbed fistfuls of the vines. After climbing until he was level with the windows, he tossed the tiny rock he¡¯d collected at them. It bounced off soundlessly.


    ¡°No surprises there,¡± Callam muttered as he clambered over to the nearest window. After all, neverbreak glass was shatterproof; it absorbed everything, even noise. Positioning himself so that his feet balanced on a bottom sill while his hands gripped the thinner one up top, Callam readied a kick. These windows would have been impenetrable, if not for a single oversight: they opened inwards to allow for a breeze on a hot day. And, while the glass itself was unbreakable, the latches locking the windows shut were not.


    Callam¡¯s kick landed and he nearly fell when his foot bounced right off the pane. Bracing himself, he tried kicking harder. He couldn¡¯t reach those internal latches, but he didn¡¯t need to¡ªwith enough force, the window¡¯s magic would do the work for him.


    Still nothing.


    Resigned, he tightened his grip on the top sill and pushed off the bottom one with both feet. This better work, he thought, wincing as he swung into the pane.


    Feet met glass and the window gave. It opened with a pop as the pane¡¯s magic tried to dissipate the incoming force in all directions, including into the poorly made latches. They broke under the strain, allowing Callam to push his way inside, then drop to the floor.


    Landing in a crouch, he found himself in a dark hallway decorated by antiques and paintings. He snuck his way down it, feeling more like an intruder with every step. There was a quiet here that was different from that of the streets¡ªa sense of safety that seeped from the walls. Clearly, the manor¡¯s owners were confident this place could not be breached. The lack of guards confirmed it.


    Callam envied that feeling of security. He wished to share in it.


    Finally, he reached the fourth marker: a carpeted staircase with polished banisters. Callam climbed it two steps at a time. He was so close to his destination that his pulse raced. At the top of the landing, drawn back curtains revealed the largest private library in Port Cardica.


    A lifetime''s worth of stories towered upwards from floor to domed ceiling, the shelved books sorted by size and color. Everbright candles bobbed in the air and circled slowly as if lifted by a draft. By their light, Callam spotted stained glass more intricate than any he¡¯d ever slept under. Purple hardcovers filled the highest tiers, accessible only by rolling ladders. Even from a distance, these books were intimidating¡ªregal, with thick and intricate bindings, as if too good for Callam¡¯s patronage. Below them, Callam passed a line of green volumes that he recognized by sight. Carried by every lawman and constable at the Port, they were a codex of the city¡¯s laws.


    Nearest to the ground and within easy reach lay rows of red books with warm covers. They begged to be read. Without thinking, Callam touched one of them. It was a reflexive action from years spent hoping and wanting¡ªand it made no difference. Grimoires granted users access to the written word, so without a successful binding, Callam would stay illiterate. The words would slide right off the pages of any book he opened.


    He wanted to read, though.


    Everyone did, but dockside orphans more than most. They¡¯d huddle by the piers and pinch together halfpennies to pay travelers for tales of far-off places, brave heroes, and outrageous villains; those coins may have been better spent on food, but the stories cut the cold a little. Made the scars hurt less. As Callam grew older, he had learned that novels carried these adventures. They brought life to worlds the likes of which dockboys could only dream of.


    And those books aren¡¯t even grimoires, he thought. They do all that with just words.


    Rustling drew Callam¡¯s attention upward in a panic, but it was only paperfowl. They nestled among the rafters, cooing at each other. He¡¯d seen a few in his life, when they¡¯d gotten lost mid-flight and wound up by the docks. Made of parchment, the enchanted constructs sang melodies into the nooks and crannies of grand libraries. They helped make the space feel warm and inviting.


    At the back of the room, balusters fed into a spiral staircase that coiled upward. Reaching its top, Callam¡¯s eyes went wide. He raced down the deep study, passing two doors and an armchair, before he came to a stop in front of a massive wardrobe. Stored upon it, about ten feet out of reach, were at least ten scripted grimoires, each a different color and each radiating a perceptible weight. They all shared in the telltale signs: ¡®Air that shimmers like warm vapor on a cool day. Stars and insignia embedded and bright.¡¯ Turning around in a craze, Callam searched for a way to reach the tomes. All he had to do was touch one and he¡¯d hopefully be able to bind.


    No more variance or risk. No more fearing Binding Day. Any magic was better than none.


    Yet, there wasn¡¯t a ladder in sight.


    Callam had just begun to drag the armchair over when instinct told him that someone was coming. He ignored the impulse, so close to his prize. The sensation grew stronger, turning from a soft nudge to a bright warning.


    Voices reached him. Coming closer. Getting louder.


    There was no time to think. Callam rushed to the wardrobe¡¯s doors, fingers fumbling, breath strained as he tugged on the knobs. Mages would flog unbound for the smallest of offenses, and trespassing was no minor offense. Finally, he pried open the wardrobe and sheltered among some robes and coats. Slipping both hands out, Callam pulled the heavy doors in. For a moment, he feared that they would squeak dreadfully¡ªbut oiled hinges proved a thief''s best friend.


    With a crash, the study¡¯s doors slammed open.

 Chapter Three: The Pauper鈥檚 Pitfall

    "Endure the hand that beats, for it¡¯s the one that feeds."


    Preachings of the Son¡¯s Solace.


    <hr>


    ¡°Leave it alone!¡± a young man shouted, storming into the study.


    Pressed up against a crack between the wardrobe¡¯s door, Callam could barely make out a boy¡¯s green robes and sharp face as he paced back and forth. He looked close to Callam in age, slightly older if his blond stubble was any indication.


    Poet¡¯s hand, Callam thought, trying his best not to make a sound. If I¡¯m caught here, I¡¯ll get the noose. Dust caked the floor under him and teased the back of his throat. He fought to keep in a cough. The walls, the stale air, and the image of the hanging post made the space suffocating. Any movement at all and he¡¯d be overheard.


    ¡°Master Writ,¡± called out a man, who seemed quite timid and deferential. ¡°Your father mandates it! Please understand, sir. It¡¯s not up to me. I swear.¡± The voice''s owner came into view: a short, chubby man wearing the black and whites of a scholar. He labored to catch his breath.


    ¡°I may be in your charge,¡± the youth responded scathingly, ¡°but if you think to condemn me to peasant work, then you, Father, and the Prophet himself can go to the Heathen¡¯s Haven!¡±


    Hearing the curse, Callam felt his chest tighten. Orphans swore like beached sailors, but they learned quickly where not to step. Nothing good comes from taking the Prophet¡¯s name in vain. The Sisters made sure to beat-in that rule.


    ¡°Do¨Cdon¡¯t speak such h-heresy, young master,¡± the man stammered, his round cheeks pinched. ¡°If your father hears you¡­¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll do what?¡± the boy spat. ¡°Father¡¯s left me out to dry. He knew I did not care for a standard binding, yet forced me into one anyway. He could have gifted me a scripted grimoire. Saved me from fighting in the Tower. Instead, he sends me there to risk my life.¡±


    ¡°Master Writ,¡± the scholar said firmly, as if he¡¯d found his legs, ¡°your father wishes for you to conquer the Seeker¡¯s Tower. To write your own path. He is not alone in this; many believe the trite magic of a scripted grimoire comes at a cost. And, a man of his station ca¡ª¡±


    ¡°Can speak for himself,¡± a stern voice interjected.


    Callam¡¯s mouth dried. He knew men like this one. Men who spoke with born authority. Men who face no consequences, only inconveniences. Around Callam, the wardrobe now felt like a coffin. He fought to stay still, to not bury himself among the coats. Surviving the streets meant avoiding callers like this man. Avoiding their sunken cellars and sickly smiles that never quite reached their eyes.


    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Orsal,¡± the man said. ¡°Sebastian, your petulance has gone on long enough. Your mother has turned a blind eye, but it is clear that you are stunted. I will not tolerate your cowardice any longer.¡±


    ¡°Father, why can¡¯t you just¨C¡±


    The sound of a slap cut through the study. A long quiet followed, so tense that Callam could hear it. This man views his child as a prize, not a person, Callam realized. It twisted his stomach.


    ¡°Da¡­¡±


    ¡°Not another word.¡± the man commanded. He walked past the wardrobe, stopping to straighten the cuffs of his velvet shirt that hung loose around his shoulders. Disgust wrinkled a hawkish face with a curved nose and furrowed brow.


    ¡°You will address me as Scriptor Writ,¡± he said, then took a measured breath. ¡°Just as you will scale the Tower and earn your own way. Should you progress your grimoire, you may return home. Until then, you will earn our family¡¯s name with bone and with blood.¡± When no response came, the man continued, ¡°Good. Now, let¡¯s deal with tonight¡¯s other nuisance.¡± He turned to stare directly at the wardrobe. ¡°Enjoying the show, boy?¡±


    ¡°Halluk!¡± the man incanted, his words reverberating with power. Hundreds of shadows erupted from a pouch at his waist, arcing through the air as they congregated in front of the wardrobe. They wriggled together like a knot of ravenous eels. Then they burst through the crack in the doors.


    Callam had no time to process what was happening. The magic strands lassoed his body and pulled¡ªtoo late, he tried to dig in his heels, desperately grabbed for the coats, failed, and was tossed into the air. He barely managed to get his arms underneath himself before he hit the study floor. Hard.


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    Pain blared and pushed all thoughts out. Callam lay prostrate, face pressed against the ground, knees bruised, his heart in his throat. He worked to gather himself, but panicked as the iron grip of magic pulled him upwards. Callam fought against it¡ªdrew deep from the well of stubbornness he¡¯d built over the years.


    It was useless.


    A scream escaped his lips as the spell contorted his body, stretching his arms outwards and splaying them like the wings of a bird. Terror threatened to overwhelm Callam and he felt his heart thud in his ears as the mage approached. The man¡¯s composure was at odds with his son¡¯s bewildered expression. The elderly scholar recovered a moment later and pushed his glasses up with a surprised, ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°What have we here?¡± the mage asked as he circled Callam. ¡°I thought I felt a rat in our garden. Now¡­who¡¯d be stupid enough to let you in?¡± The man glanced at his son. When the boy didn¡¯t react, he continued. ¡°Or maybe you climbed the rocks, eager to taste our treasures here at the top?¡±


    Callam stayed silent and stared the mage down. Words carried power, and he would not give this man his. Callam had felt this small once before, when as a little boy the Sisters had found his cot wet. He¡¯d broken down then. Never again, he¡¯d told himself. He would not allow this mage to see his fear.


    Or to learn how desperately he needed a grimoire.


    ¡°Yes,¡± the mage whispered. ¡°That¡¯s it. Unbound. No magic signature at all. Tell me¡­which forbidden fruit had you set your foolish sight on?¡±


    Callam didn¡¯t respond¡ªinstead, he hawked onto the man¡¯s shoes. Despite the defiance in Callam¡¯s eyes, the action hadn¡¯t been intentional. The spell he was under pressured his stomach and his silence had earned more pressure still. Bitterness filled his mouth; he¡¯d coughed up dark bile. Still, to everyone watching, it appeared the stupidest, bravest thing he could have done.


    The mage recoiled in disgust, then quickly regained his composure. ¡°Sebastian. Come,¡± he called out. ¡°It seems the gods favor you after all. They¡¯ve gifted you the opportunity to wet your tome.¡±


    ¡°Wh-what do you mean?¡± Sebastian stuttered, visibly confused by his father¡¯s sudden attention.


    The mage¡¯s face contorted at the answer. He grabbed his son and pulled him close. ¡°I mean for you to kill the boy,¡± he said. ¡°Prove that the Prophet¡¯s gift is not wasted on you. Show me that you understand the way of His world. That you know your place is on top of it.¡±


    Enunciating those final words, the mage lifted his free palm upwards. Pure energy crackled around his hand and morphed into various shapes and sizes. ¡°This tool should suffice,¡± he said, a dark blade materializing above his fingers.


    Claustrophobia enveloped Callam as he watched the blade appear. He pushed and pushed against the magic hold, but it was as sure and stable as steel. All he could do now was recoil deeply within himself. He hid in that inner sanctuary that keeps survivors sane, a warm, walled place built on long nights spent gorging water just to feel full.


    From that detached place, the world unfolded as if he was viewing it through a thick pane of glass. Callam watched Sebastian stride over to his father; the noble boy¡¯s face betrayed his fear and wonder as he reached out to seize the blade. The moment he touched the hilt, Sebastian¡¯s eyes widened and he immediately attempted to withdraw his fingers.


    His father didn¡¯t allow it. The mage ruthlessly grabbed the youth¡¯s wrist and forced the boy¡¯s hands back upon the weapon. Sebastian screamed, but the mage didn¡¯t care. ¡°Enough,¡± he snarled. ¡°That pain you feel is the burden we Scriptors carry. The burden that those who wish to master magic must overcome. Embrace it. Understand what you are and what they will never be.¡±


    It was a statement born from cruelty¡ªthe blade Sebastian clutched was no soldier¡¯s tool but a weapon that fed on the noble boy''s arm, blistering his skin like meat in a pot. What father does that to their son? Callam thought, his mind reeling. The question came to him slowly, as if passing through a dense fog. It quieted the fear Callam dared not confront: what was going to happen to him?


    Somehow, Sebastian firmed his resolve and brandished the blade even as it festered his flesh. Disdain marred his boyish face. Callam locked onto the youth¡¯s gaze, knowing defiance to be his last protection from the sword. For a moment, uncertainty overtook the venom in the noble boy¡¯s eyes.


    It was a false hope. Sebastian regained his composure and reached his unoccupied hand into his green robe. In a fluid motion, he pulled out a thin grimoire, then flipped it open.


    ¡°Reforma Experia,¡± he invoked. The sapphire tome he held bloomed to life, brackish water and dark algae streaming out from its seams. Sebastian had spoken in the language of mages, but the words he¡¯d said were so infamous that even Callam knew their meaning¡ªSebastian aimed to expand his spellbook by writing a chapter with the lifeblood of another.


    ¡°Imparte,¡± Sebastian mouthed to finish the spell. By that point, his swordhand had started to char.


    The tome responded to his words, its surface turning rigid as the placid algae became wiry. The vegetation shot outward and, finding Callam, began to constrict around him; the frigid, oily vestiges drew a gasp from his lips as the plant sought nourishment.


    With a strained smile, Sebastian raised the sword and swept it down at Callam¡¯s neck.


    No! Callam''s mind howled. His body began to tremble¡ªfear breached the walls he¡¯d built to keep reality out. The stanzas said that ¡°a life of providence should be lived without pride,¡± but Callam had always wanted more. He¡¯d promised her that he¡¯d be more.


    Yet, it seemed his future was already written.


    Callam felt the burn of the blade first. It consumed him, the pain bright and the smell acrid. It was everything he knew. All he could ever know.

 Chapter Four: Solace in Shackles

    "Fear not the flame of fortune, for the destined will stand and the forsaken will fall."


    ¨CPastor Rashi at the burning of City Rebla.


    <hr>


    Agony overwhelmed Callam. It reached the deepest parts of him until he couldn¡¯t think, couldn¡¯t move¡ªthen, just like that, the pain was gone. The transition was so abrupt that he feared he might be in his death throes. Callam had flinched his eyes shut in those last moments, so he wasn¡¯t quite sure why he¡¯d survived. Opening them, he understood.


    Sebastian stood in front of him, the boy¡¯s disfigured grip slack where once it held firm. The blade he¡¯d been wielding had burned straight through his hand and now teetered on Callam¡¯s shoulder. It fell a moment later, clanging loudly as it hit the floor¡ªa fresh scar remained in its place, stretching from neck to collarbone, the cauterized skin seemingly responsible for Callam''s lack of pain. The stink of burnt flesh reached Callam a few seconds later, and almost turned his stomach.


    "To fail your first culling¡­ as expected.¡± Disappointment laced Scriptor Writ¡¯s words as he inspected his child¡¯s arm. ¡°Your brother finished without hesitation. Even Raele managed it, in the end. But not you." The man turned to Callam next, and considered him for a long moment. His eyes were calculating. Practical. Eventually, he said to the scholar, ¡°Binding Day is around the corner, is it not? Lock the thief up until then. Food and water; we wouldn¡¯t want to deprive our port of its labor."


    With that, the man snapped his fingers. From its place on the floor, the blade surged upwards; a flare sparked on the weapon¡¯s pommel and rode up the edge, transfiguring the sword into a black tome. The mage snatched it, whispered a word, and began to disappear into darkness. ¡°Do make sure we get a captor¡¯s credit for bringing the boy in,¡± he added before he faded out of sight.


    Callam gasped and fell weakly to his knees on the study¡¯s floor. He inhaled fully for the first time since he¡¯d been hexed. Sweat had condensed on his forehead, so he lifted a hand to wipe the droplets away. He¡¯d been certain the mage would finish what his son had begun, but it seemed the man was too pragmatic for that. A shiver suddenly passed through Callam¡¯s body¡ªhe hugged himself reflexively. His skin was hot to the touch. Way, way too hot, he realized, as his vision shifted and he fell onto his side.


    The last thing Callam felt was the smooth wooden floor against his cheek; the last thing he saw was the scholar pull out a red spellbook and run to Sebastian¡¯s side. ¡°Recrupa al Malis!¡± the man shouted, trying to tend to the boy. Sebastian shook his head and violently pushed the scholar away. He pointed to Callam, mouthing the same phrase over and over again.


    Callam couldn¡¯t hear a single word.


    ~~~


    Callam''s eyes flashed open. Everything was dark¡ªso dark that for a moment he feared he¡¯d gone blind. He touched around himself in a panic; the ground underneath him felt cold as ice and hard like stone. He coughed once, shivered, and tried to force himself to stay awake. His body lured him back to sleep.


    He awoke in a much warmer environment. Whipping his head around, Callam tried to get a sense of his surroundings. He had fleeting memories of being somewhere dark and freezing, yet now found himself in a lit room with austere, white walls that felt as if they pressed in from all sides. His confusion was only heightened by the bitter smell, antiseptic almost, and by the craftsmanship of the bedpan, sink, and stool that all fought for space in a corner of the narrow room. Each was nicer than anything kept by the Sisters.


    ¡°A dream, maybe?¡± he murmured to himself and tried to sit up.


    He was stopped short. Manacles cuffed his wrists to the sides of his cot and prevented him from doing much more than turn on his side. When he did, Callam¡¯s eyes went wide and his fingers began to itch. A small shelf stacked heavy with books was in a corner of the room, frustratingly out of his reach.


    Books were rare¡ªfar too rare to share with inmates. That¡¯s what I am, right? Callam thought. He wasn¡¯t so sure. His room was unlike any cell he¡¯d ever seen, let alone heard of; instead, it looked more like one of the infirmaries scattered around Port Cardica¡¯s western isle. Though those places rarely carried cord or needle¡ªlet alone books. Giving it some thought, Callam settled on a simpler explanation: the novels must have been concessions for captured mages, civilities meant to keep them sane. After all, only the bound could read.


    Minutes passed. Callam tried to get comfortable. yet every position seemed to pressure his injured ribs. Eventually, he gave up and rolled onto his back. Two days until Binding Day, he thought while staring at the ceiling of his cell. Of course, that was only a guess; he had no real way of discerning how much time had passed since he¡¯d collapsed. Some small part of him knew he should be afraid, or confused, but he was just too drained to feel much of anything.


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    Two days. Two days before the ceremony that compelled all unbound seventeen-year-olds to swear on a grimoire and see if they were lucky enough to gain magic. Most would fail, everyone knew that; less than one in ten unbound succeeded in a traditional binding. The unlucky became Ruddites and would be indentured as soon as the ceremony finished, typically for a span of ten years and a day. Orphan Ruddites had it the worst; as a lower caste, they¡¯d spend the majority of their lives slaving for those blessed by scripture.


    It¡¯s incredibly unfair, Callam thought for what was probably the thousandth time. He grabbed the thin pillow he¡¯d been provided and tried to ball it into something vaguely comfortable.


    He¡¯d never forget the first time he¡¯d seen mages soar through the sky. They¡¯d looked just like birds, if birds shot fire from their feet. The moment Callam spotted them, he¡¯d raced to the chapel and begged the Sisters to let him learn magic, too. They¡¯d explained how grimoires worked to him then. ¡°A bound tome imparts its power twice. Once with every challenge earned, and again with every lesson turned.¡±


    The Sisters had informed Callam that when a mage passed away, his tome became ¡®scripted¡¯ and could be bought or sold. These scripted grimoires were far easier to bind with than regular spellbooks, so powerful families hoarded them as gifts for future heirs.


    Callam had kicked so many rocks on his way back to the docks that day that he¡¯d bruised all his toes. Even as a six year old child, he¡¯d seen scripted grimoires for what they were: a cheat for the wealthy. Their only downside, he¡¯d later learned, was that their users couldn¡¯t discover customized spells or chapters. They¡¯d be stuck with whatever magic the previous owner had mastered. That was a sacrifice Callam would eagerly make; he had no delusions about his chances of succeeding in a regular Binding.


    If I¡¯d just touched one, I could magic my way out of here and¡ªgrating sounds interrupted Callam¡¯s thoughts and drew his attention to a section of the wall. He watched the stone recede slowly until there was a dark gap large enough to serve as an entryway. As he waited for someone to enter, a terrible thought crossed his mind.


    The mage had said to provide food and water. He¡¯d never said anything about torture.


    ¡°What is written?¡± a woman¡¯s voice asked from behind the doorway. That was¡­ not exactly what Callam had expected. ¡°What is written?¡± the woman repeated a few seconds later, but Callam kept his silence. He was reluctant to greet anyone who might be related to those who¡¯d imprisoned him.


    ¡°Well aren¡¯t you a stubborn one,¡± the woman said as she entered. She was heavyset, wore worker¡¯s overalls, and sported a healer''s cap over red hair that she¡¯d bound up tightly in a bun. Callam felt himself relax when he saw her eyes¡ªthey were warm and held the promise of fresh bread handed out on winter nights.


    ¡°I¡¯m Helena, but you can call me ¡®ma¡¯am.¡¯ Turn this way,¡± she instructed, motioning to the side of the bed. ¡°Good. As much as you can. That¡¯s perfect.¡±


    ¡°Ow! Careful.¡± Callam protested when Helena probed his shoulder. A few choice words, and the question of why he wasn¡¯t in a dungeon, came to his mind.


    ¡°Well,¡± Helena said after a moment, ¡°looks like you¡¯ll need stitches after all. The Writs won¡¯t get a bent copper in recompense if you arrive to Binding Day in this state.¡± Sticking her hands into denim pockets, she pulled out a bright yellow grimoire. She also produced a thin needle, and where she moved it, thread followed. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing Mrs. Writ moved you to the infirmary when she did. Sweeter than a plum, that woman. Now, hold still¡ªthis will hurt. Sem,¡± Helena incanted, and the needle responded.


    It zipped up Callam¡¯s shoulder, stitching the skin in a fluid motion. Back and forth it traveled until it reached the end of the laceration, then looped around to tie a knot. If Helena noticed how Callam tensed at the needle, or shied away from her touch, she said nothing. For that, he was grateful.


    ¡°Th¨Cthank you!¡± he managed to get out, wanting to be polite. He¡¯d been stitched enough times to recognize her skill.


    ¡°You are very welcome. Shouldn¡¯t be more than a day or two before you¡¯re back in tip-top shape.¡± Looking him up and down, she added, ¡°We can¡¯t have you looking like a skeleton, can we? Arthur!¡± she called out. ¡°Plate some chicken, if you¡¯d please!¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am!¡± a high-pitched voice responded. A moment later a young blonde boy peered in from the opening in the wall. ¡°Water too, ma?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my boy. Pull the big wooden lever like I taught you,¡± Helena responded, seeming every part the proud mother. To Callam, she whispered, ¡°he just turned eight.¡± Then, she crossed the room with the sure steps of someone who knew where everything ought to be. Callam tensed when she shifted open a panel in the wall, but he had nothing to fear¡ªshe simply retrieved a tray brimming with chicken and piled laughably high with brown rice. A fork had been jabbed into the mound, and was slowly toppling over.


    ¡°Pure as the Prophet, that one. Well, at least he remembered cutlery this time.¡± Helena chortled. ¡°Now, don¡¯t try anything funny,¡± she warned, eyeing him cautiously. ¡°I¡¯ve raised three sons and a husband. I know firsthand the bad decisions men make.¡±


    Callam chuckled, then hacked in pain. Coughing, he lifted his shackled arms, palms up. The global sign of peace.


    ¡°Hmmm.¡± Helena squinted at him, then smiled. ¡°The food¡¯s cold¡ªnot much we can do about that. Everything gets prepared up¡­well over there.¡± She motioned to the door. ¡°The staff are mostly Ruddites, bless their souls. By the time anything arrives here it''s no longer warm.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s perfect,¡± Callam replied, and meant it. He was confused by his good treatment, and exhausted from his heist, but more than anything, he was starving. Arthur had provided a kingly portion, so Callam eagerly grabbed the fork. It wasn¡¯t easy to eat manacled, but he¡¯d learned early on not to waste a meal.


    ¡°Just like my eldest,¡± Helena said with a small smile. She brought over a jug of water that she¡¯d just fetched from the wall panel. ¡°Eats every meal like it¡¯s his last too. Doesn¡¯t matter how often I serve him seconds¡ªfood¡¯s always gone before I can sit down.¡±


    Before long, a chime rang and Helena took her leave. ¡°I¡¯ll be back tomorrow,¡± she said when she departed. ¡°Get some rest. The Binding Day Trials will take a lot out of you.¡±

 Chapter Five : A Pauper鈥檚 Presents

    "There is magic in words. No longer in yours."


    Verse One, The First Binding


    <hr>


    Callam ate and drank in silence after Helena left, enjoying the rare meal that was neither stolen nor fought for. In particular, he savored the chicken; it was far more tender than the stringy rooster meat vendors sold by the stick. The brown rice was more common fare, but even so it was soft and delicious, without any crunch.


    At some point Callam bit into something hard: a wishbone had snuck into his meal. Seeing it, he felt a smile tug at his lips. He knew many sailors who would have jumped at the chance to break it. ¡°Furcula¡¯s Fortune,¡± they¡¯d called it¡ªthey were always eager to show off their big words when deep in their cups. It was a good omen, especially so among those who counted seagulls as a staple of their diet. More importantly, the bone made for an excellent tool. Callam moved to jiggle it into the keyhole of his shackles, when he found that the manacles were affixed with an unpickable spellwork.


    No surprises there, Callam thought, and tucked back into his meal.


    Once he¡¯d cleaned his plate, he tried to doze off. Sleep evaded him, the minutes turning to hours as he tossed and turned. For the first time in years he¡¯d gone to bed full; it was a surprisingly uncomfortable sensation, and he couldn¡¯t help but feel like a pig fattened for slaughter. Eventually, Callam resigned himself to staring at the bookshelf next to the corner of his cot. What he wouldn¡¯t give to hold one of those books. Honestly, he would have settled for watching a fly.


    Anything to beat the boredom and keep his mounting anxiety at bay.


    I¡¯ve failed, Callam admitted to himself some time later, resisting the urge to clench his fists. He¡¯d called in every favor he could pull, and several he owed still, to prepare for his heist, yet had failed. Worse, he¡¯d let his sister¡¯s memory down. Before she¡¯d passed, Siela had pulled him close and made him swear to ¡°stand tall where others falter.¡±


    It''s just like her to leave me with a stanza, Callam thought, his throat constricting slightly. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but he held them back. Siela had loved the verses, and had always claimed that faith carried a power of its own. Callam didn¡¯t know much about that, but he remembered his promise. He¡¯d lived by it.


    My future is not yet written, he told himself, and took a deep breath. In the five years since his sister¡¯s passing, Callam had trained his fingers and sharpened his wit every day. His rigorous practice had paid off more than once¡ªnow, he had to trust that it would be enough. The only thing left for him to do was to complete a few small acts of preparation, and find strength in owning what parts of the process he could control.


    To that end, Callam grabbed the fork from his meal and clutched it between his manacled hands. Turning on his side, he poked a hole through the sheets, tore the material into thin strips, and then fastened the first strip around the wishbone¡¯s clavicle, effectively creating a small pendant. With no reason to wear it just yet, Callam hid it underneath his pillow. Time alone would tell if the bone was lucky or not.


    Callam tied the remaining strips together into one long string that vaguely resembled a sling. This too went under his pillow. Lastly, Callam draped the blankets over the hole in his sheets and lay on top of it. Better to be chilly than to have Helena question him on why he¡¯d torn apart the linen.


    ~~~~~


    Callam was sound asleep when breakfast came and went. Restless thoughts had kept him up late into the night, so he slept right through lunch as well. Helena finally woke him for dinner. She carried a big basket in her hands and was dressed in a blue smock that favored function over form¡ªit looked as simple as it was durable and was covered by a long white apron with more than a few stains.


    ¡°Blanket alright? Or do you just prefer not to use one?¡± Helena asked, her eyebrows raised.


    Callam yawned a ¡°yes,¡± in response.


    ¡°Fair enough. Some people run hot,¡± Helena said. ¡°Here, I¡¯ve brought you a change of clothes, since yours look destroyed.¡± She set the basket she was carrying down on the side of the bed, then placed a pair of thin leather sandals on top of it. ¡°Ironed the shirt myself, so don¡¯t go getting it dirty. Now, arms out. I¡¯ll remove your cuffs so you can change. Behave, and I won¡¯t have to put them back on.¡±


    Callam nodded, then complied after a moment of hesitation. He was unsure of what to make of these gifts. Helena appeared earnest, and she¡¯d been nothing but kind¡ªyet he still felt wary. He¡¯d learned long ago that favors traded hands like a pack of worn cards and kindness was rarely dealt for free.


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    ¡°Alorha,¡± Helena incanted once Callam had fully extended his arms. She tapped his manacles with her needle and wisps of light spiraled down the iron until they reached the crowns on each clasp and released the internal mechanisms with a pop.


    The cuffs loosened and Callam sighed in relief. He stayed quiet for a moment, itching his chafed skin as he gathered his thoughts. ¡°So¡­ what do I owe you for those?¡± he asked with a gesture to the basket of clothes. In his experience, it was best to air out any debts upfront. ¡°I¡¯m not exactly flush with coin.¡±


    Helena paused her ministrations, her hands in the middle of applying a fresh bandage. ¡°Owe me?¡± she probed, with a tinge of amusement in her voice. ¡°You¡¯re healing better than I expected,¡± she noted a moment later, having clearly chosen to ignore his question. ¡°There¡¯s bread and cheese inside the basket, next to your new clothes. I wrapped the food up, as I wasn¡¯t certain if you¡¯d be awake. Since you are, it¡¯s best you rinse up; you won¡¯t have time in the morning¡ªthe guards will be down early to take you to Binding Day. Be extra respectful to them. Their friends were dismissed for letting you in.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t wait,¡± Callam replied sarcastically¡ªhe was no stranger to angry guards. He was also unsure why Helena had avoided his question, but he decided not to press the issue. ¡°Thanks, Hele¨Cuh. Ma¡¯am. For everything.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re very welcome,¡± Helena said. She looked him over once more, then offered him a sad smile. ¡°It¡¯s easy to think they are all rotten. The nobles, I mean. Reality is, most treat the Ruddite well¡ªeven Mr. Writ does, once he forgives and forgets. So don¡¯t lose hope. Even if you don¡¯t bind, you might still find a home in a noble¡¯s house.¡±


    Helena¡¯s words lingered as she collected the previous day''s plates onto a tray, lifted it, and turned to cross the small room. When she reached the doorway, she hesitated and motioned to the bookshelf with her chin. ¡°Just because you can¡¯t read them doesn¡¯t mean they don¡¯t have stories to share.¡±


    With that, Helena stepped through the opening in the wall. It sealed behind her, but not before little Arthur could stick his head out and shout, ¡°Good luck, mister! May the Prophet prosper within you!¡±


    The minute she''d left, Callam darted from his cot to the bookshelf. He didn¡¯t need to be told twice; he wanted to try and read¡ªeven though everyone knew that unbound couldn¡¯t. Wiping his hands clean, he sat on the ground cross-legged. He¡¯d touched books before, of course, but only when the Sisters had taught him a new prayer. And those holy books had remained closed during the entire lesson; all Callam had been allowed to do was take two fingers to his forehead, to his heart, then gently to the cover.


    Not today, though. Today, he was going to open a book and see what secrets lay within.


    Nimble fingers reached for a green hardcover and pulled it from its snug place between two other volumes on the shelf. The leather was weathered with age, supple and grooved where countless hands had loved and cradled it. It smelled of fired oak and cellar musk; all of it promised grand stories¡ªthe type that sent Callam back to better days. Cradling the novel, he undid the blue ribbon tying it shut. Only then did he notice a red bookmark nestled between the pages, as if someone had put the book down mid-adventure.


    He flipped to the marker. It seemed as good a starting point as any.


    Callam¡¯s eyes widened as letters unfolded before him for the first time. He¡¯d seen writing previously, on street signs and the like, but never much of it and never for long¡ªthe words had always slipped away before he¡¯d gotten a proper look. Nothing had prepared him for the flowing calligraphy that now filled the page in front of him. Each stroke of ink was perfectly aligned and entirely illegible, the text interrupted occasionally by dots, hooks, and spaces.


    Callam¡¯s heart froze when the words stayed still longer than he¡¯d expected. Longer than they should. The basic laws of magic dictated that unbound couldn¡¯t make rhyme or reason of written language¡ªthat the ink should slide right off the pages.


    Apparently, those laws were wrong.


    That¡¯s¡­impossible. he thought, his mouth slightly open, his eyes fixed on the paper. Can I¡­where do I start? he wondered, trying to parse the letters for their meaning. Before he¡¯d managed any progress, however, reality caught up; Callam watched as the words blurred, then fell from the page. Without thinking, he tore to another section of the book. He knew unbound couldn¡¯t read, yet felt certain he would have been able to, if given enough time. Choosing a fresh page, he tried again.


    And again.


    With each new attempt Callam grew more cross-eyed. Soon, a mounting pressure prickled the back of his head. He wanted to stop, but like a sailor bailing a waterlogged boat, he could not. He finished the first book and grabbed another; two more he skimmed through in this fashion, and still the garbled letters repeated their infernal pattern¡ªthey held steady long enough to taunt him with the hope of understanding, only to unravel and fall away. By the end of the third volume, Callam¡¯s head was truly pounding. He felt ready to throw the book at a wall.  Instead, he wearily watched as the words on that final page fled.


    ¡°What in the Poet¡¯s name¡­?¡± he whispered. Callam rubbed his tired eyes. When that didn¡¯t do anything, he rubbed the paper between his fingers.


    Then, he gaped at the page: he could see and feel four little dots on the paper¡¯s surface. Each one was no bigger than an ink drop, and together they formed the outline of a square.


    Common sense told Callam that he shouldn¡¯t be able to see these marks. Yet he could¡ªand his instincts told him that these dots were only visible to the illiterate, hidden by text as they normally were. Anyone able to read would see writing on the page, and not the markings beneath.


    What have I stumbled onto? Callam thought with a pang of nervousness. He felt a growing urge to look over his shoulder. It was as if someone had intentionally marred the book¡¯s page to hide a message from those with magic.


    But why would anyone do that?

 Chapter Six: Of Cyphers and Seedlings

    "Swords, sacrifice, and the valor of a righteous heart.


    With these we¡¯ve written you the hero.


    But should you find us a survivor of your crusade?


    Well, then you¡¯ll have your monster, too."


    The Making of Kings, Volume One.


    <hr>


    Heresy. Callam wracked his mind, but he couldn¡¯t think of another reason for the markings he¡¯d found inside the book. He knew of heretics. Or rather, he¡¯d heard stories about them¡ªof Rebelrousers that fought for Ruddite liberation, or of the Broken Covenant and their consort of freemen¡ªbut those were wishtales shared by orphans in hushed voices. They weren¡¯t real things any more than miracles were. At least, that¡¯s what Callam had believed. Now, he wasn¡¯t so sure. If secret messages could be shared, it stood to reason that secret organizations could exist too.


    Callam exhaled a long breath. His legs were starting to cramp, so he stood up from his place on the floor to stretch them out. He knew there was a chance he was making broth without bone: the square could be a square and not a coded message at all.


    Yet the raised hairs on Callam¡¯s neck told him otherwise. Without truly realizing it, he began to pace his narrow room, all the while fighting a growing urge to put the book away and pretend he¡¯d never seen it¡ªhe knew the consequences of heresy. At the same time, Callam needed to find out if the other books held secret diagrams too, in the same way a gambler needed another toss of the dice.


    More pressing than either impulse, though, was the unanswered question of why he¡¯d found the book in the first place? It seemed too great a coincidence that he would accidentally stumble onto something like this in the Writ¡¯s infirmary. Had the book been left behind by a patient or prisoner, in the hope that it would one day be found?


    Or, even more daunting: had Helena or Mrs. Writ placed him here intentionally so that he might find it?


    Minutes passed, yet Callam found himself no closer to any answers. Worse, his pacing had only rattled his nerves. He eventually resigned himself to the truth: he simply didn¡¯t have enough information to understand what he¡¯d discovered. That alone might have spurred him on to search through the rest of the books, if he¡¯d not been driven by a more personal reason as well. He¡¯d remembered Siela¡¯s favorite stanza. She¡¯d always told him that ¡°those who leave riches unread become starving men.¡±


    Feeling an ache deep within his chest, Callam plopped down on the corner of his cot. Then, he tried to steady himself. His sister had loved those words¡ªshe¡¯d repeated them for courage when she¡¯d tried new things, and for comfort when she¡¯d failed.


    If he knew her at all, she¡¯d whispered that stanza to herself when she¡¯d stepped up to Bind, her fingers fidgeting nervously as they¡¯d so often done. It was only fitting, Callam decided, that he heed the stanza¡¯s advice.


    He walked over to the shelf, pulled free a stack of books, strewed them all across the bed, and began to pore over their pages. The first hardcover imparted no secrets; yet, on its last page, the second one did! Callam¡¯s pulse quickened when he discovered that it hid four dots, just like the first book, though these were set out in the form of a rectangle, not a square.


    He scoured through the rest of his stack, then the remaining books on the shelf.


    Five volumes bore fruit in the end. Of them, the third book had six dots that formed a shape that looked like a honeycomb, and the fourth hid three dots in the outline of a triangle. The last book was unique in that it held only a single mark, right in the center of the final page. It was this book Callam picked up and inspected more closely, thinking it the key to the mystery. Part of the reason why was that of all the shapes, this was the only one that couldn¡¯t be divided into a triangle. The other part of it was his gut¡ªhe¡¯d always been innately good at solving riddles. Siela had often teased that his mind was one step outside the box and constantly trying to find its way back in.


    Unfortunately, the book Callam was holding looked plenty ordinary. Perhaps it was a little thicker than the rest, or a tad duller in hue, but nothing significant enough to stand out. Still, Callam was not discouraged; over his years of thieving, he¡¯d learned that valuables were best hidden in plain sight. After clearing some space on his now crowded bed, he laid the book flat and flipped it open to a page. Eagerly, he tried to read.


    Words formed. Then, they slid right off the paper. Again.


    With a small shake of his head, Callam turned the page. He was about to turn another when he noticed that the paper kept trying to curl back to where it had just been. Skipping ahead to a later section of the book, he watched as those pages did the same¡ªthey gradually flipped back until they settled in that very spot. It seemed to Callam that the book¡¯s spine was acting as some sort of hinge, causing the pages to repeatedly fall open upon the same well-thumbed passage.


    Convinced he was onto something, Callam flipped the hardcover over. He ran his fingers across the rugged spine¡ªit felt completely normal to his untrained hands. When he closed the book, however, he did notice an unusual gap where the binding met the paper.


    Enough to hide a message? Callam wondered, trying to wedge his pinky into the space. Something slightly sharp and cold pushed back. A weapon, maybe? That wouldn¡¯t be unexpected. Rebels and heretics should know to hide the tools of their trade, after all.


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    No amount of jiggering could shake loose whatever hid in the book¡¯s spine, so Callam was forced to do the one thing he¡¯d been dreading. He cracked open the book, gripped a few of the middle pages, and tugged. Paper tore in his hands. Pages scattered when he grabbed more. He couldn¡¯t help but feel a bit nauseous when he realized that Helena would think him a savage¡ªthere was no way to explain this desecration to her. Several torn pages later, Callam could at last see something silver peeking out from behind the pages. He ripped out the few remaining sheets that obscured his prize.


    A split-second later, he dropped the book. His heart raced.


    ¡°By the Prophet...¡± The words escaped Callam¡¯s mouth before he had a chance to hold them in. He cupped his mouth instinctively. Around him, the walls felt like they had eyes. His hands shook as he reached for what had been hidden in the book¡¯s binding.


    It can¡¯t be¡­is that really a scripture Seedling? Callam wondered.


    He¡¯d recognized what it was at once: a thin piece of steel with a small tree inscribed onto it. The metal had grown at the slightest touch, and now formed a square plate slightly larger than a saucer. Ornaments of all shapes and sizes hung from the etching¡¯s branches.


    Every street kid¡ªno, everyone¡ªdreamed of finding a Seedling. They were challenges planted throughout the continent, each in the shape of a tree. The superstitious believed that Seedlings chose their keepers: that they tested mages with riddles until they found a perfect fit. Others swore that Seedlings appeared at random, fickle as a leaf in the wind.


    Callam really only knew two things about them for certain. First, they heralded grand mages. The type stories were written about; the type every dockside orphan wished they could be. In fact, Callam couldn¡¯t name a single hero that hadn¡¯t nurtured a Seedling. Secondly, Seedlings awarded treasures to those who solved them. Treasures so valuable that the city threw a parade whenever a Seedling was found¡ªreal parades, the ones that orphans frequented because the food was free.


    What should I do? he wondered, still unable to believe his eyes. As much as he hated the idea, the sensible thing to do would be to inform the Writs, and take whatever compensation they saw fit. After all, Seedlings were solved by mages, not by unbound.


    Callam quickly shook that thought away. Before he could second guess himself, he touched the uppermost ornament¡ªa small, glimmering oval etched into the steel¡¯s surface.


    Nothing happened.


    He moved to touch the oval again. Then, just as mold rots its host, so too did the ornament wither and blacken the branch from which it hung. The Seedling grew hot in Callam¡¯s hands as the branch began to smolder, and he almost let go of it in surprise. It grew hotter still.


    ¡°Poet¡¯s hand!¡± Callam swore aloud, fighting the urge to cough. An acrid smell filled the room¡ªall of the Seedling¡¯s edges had started to melt and curl. Carefully, Callam shifted the steel between his palms until he¡¯d placed it gently on the floor. What did I do wrong? he wondered, frantically searching the metal for any hints.


    He found one immediately¡ªwhile the ornaments appeared random, they were not. Callam noticed that several matched the shapes found in the back of the books: a square, rectangle, and triangle all dangled from the branches.


    Can it be that simple? Callam thought. With no time to lose, he touched the small triangle.


    The Seedling began to shake violently. The burning spread across the metal, closing in on the tree.


    ¡°No, no!¡± Callam whispered, urging himself to think faster. He felt his panic rising. There had to be a solution¡ªand Poet willing, one that didn¡¯t require magic. He knew it would include the shapes he¡¯d found in the backs of the books.


    Triangle, square, rectangle, a weird honeycomb pattern¡­and a dot. Each was made of at least three marks, except for that final one. It was the odd one out, and it had been the starting point to him finding the Seedling in the first place.


    Inspiration struck. Callam tried to ignore the steel¡¯s red glow as he hunted for anything that might pass for a small dot. There, he thought and pushed a spot on the metal¡¯s surface, right below the tree¡ªand exactly where he would expect a seed to be.


    The steel sizzled against Callam¡¯s skin. Focused as he was, he barely noticed the pain. Moments later, he released a held breath as the metal began to cool. A smile broke across his lips when golden lights emerged from the dot. They spiraled up the tree¡¯s trunk, shimmering softly, looking every bit like the spellworked garlands that joyful children draped across the city come solstice.


    Callam soaked in the sight, relieved his guess had been correct. Some of the tension eased from his neck.


    Acting on a hunch, he touched the triangle shape next. The ornament¡¯s surface rippled when pressed, emitting a soft, green light that danced along the Seedling¡¯s branches. More importantly, this confirmed Callam¡¯s theory: one dot, three dots, four dots, four dots, then six dots. An ascending pattern.


    Callam paused when considering the rectangle and square. Both shapes were made of four dots, so he had no way of knowing which he should press first. He¡¯d resigned himself to guessing, but then a solution came to mind. The Sisters taught that all squares were rectangles, but not all rectangles were squares. It stood to reason, then, that while the square ornament would count for both shapes, the rectangle would not.


    Logically, it makes sense, Callam thought. But is it right? He felt more indecision than he cared to admit; he already thought of the Seedling as his and didn¡¯t want to break it. Hesitantly, he touched the square ornament.


    Silver swirls formed around the tree¡¯s leaves. That just left the honeycomb. Callam pressed it with bated breath.


    He heard the Seedling first¡ªit sounded like a breeze stirring a windchime. That breeze built into a gust, and soon the books on his bed rustled and tore as a whirlwind formed within his room. Pages flew through the air and Callam¡¯s hair was pushed flat against his brow. Seconds later, the Seedling began to sprout. Its steel trunk erupted upwards until it stretched from floor to ceiling, delicate strands of gold spreading from its roots to the very tips of its branches. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the storm settled. A canopy of crystals budded along the Seedling¡¯s branches, bathing the room in a tapestry of warm light. Callam¡¯s heart pounded as ornaments in the shapes of fruits emerged from the leaves, each shining with the brilliance of freshly polished silver.


    He stood up, and eagerly grabbed one.

 Chapter Seven : A Thiefs Transportation

    "Once he let them read for pleasure. Once he let them burn."


    ¨CApostle Piot


    <hr>


    The Seedling cracked like overblown glass. At once, its trunk caved in, its branches snapped violently as if trodden upon, leaves wilted, and ornaments crashed. The whole of the tree appeared to melt into sand before his eyes.


    Callam staggered backwards in shock. The back of his legs hit the edge of his cot and he sat down heavily, his shoulders slumping under the weight of a deep exhaustion. I killed it, he realized. It needed magic. Or something. For a long while, he simply stared at the Seedling¡¯s remains, his mind in a daze.


    After a long while, he stood. His room was a mess; if left in this state, he¡¯d be flogged for sure. He began to brush what sand he could under his cot, then went to gather up the books. Small acts of preparation, he thought bitterly. Pages hung loose everywhere. He stacked a few of the hardcovers, picked them up, and walked over to the shelf.


    Something clattered to the floor: a small ring had tumbled out of a book¡¯s spine. The stone set within it was no bigger than a pebble, yet it shone with the deep, wild green of a forest.


    Callam¡¯s heart soared. He¡¯d held onto some small hope that he hadn¡¯t failed the Seedling¡¯s test¡ªa hope that had dwindled with each passing moment. Kneeling down, he marveled at the silver tree penciled into the gold band. Two nesting birds adorned the branches, and all the etchings seemed surprisingly detailed, despite the ring''s apparent age.


    Tentatively, Callam lifted the ring. For a long moment, he held it close, overcome by a feeling that only those with nothing know: a yearning to own something that hadn¡¯t been stolen but earned. After slipping it on, he watched in wonder as it began to glow. Mildly at first, like an ember from a cooled forge, then so bright that Callam had to squint to see it. All at once, it melted into a streak of silver that circled his finger. Around and around it went, until Callam felt dizzy. His skin began to absorb the liquid, and he was vaguely aware that the ring was staining his finger white.


    ~~~


    ¡°Look at this mess¡ªa rat¡¯s nest. I¡¯m telling you, that¡¯s just how they live,¡± one male guard said to another, then prodded Callam¡¯s unconscious form with a steel-toed boot. Squatting down, he shoved Callam onto his side. ¡°Well?¡± the guard demanded. ¡°You forget how to sleep in a cot? Or too stupid to learn?¡±


    ¡°¡­''s going on,¡± Callam mumbled as he blinked awake. His head was pounding something fierce, so he shut his eyes and tried to remember what had happened the night before.


    ¡°Up, you louse,¡± the guard demanded, his voice loud enough that Callam groaned and covered his ears.


    The guard prodded him again.


    ¡°A¡¯right, all right.¡± Callam¡¯s words came out a bit slurred. Where¡­ am I? he thought groggily, and tried to push himself up onto his elbows. His stomach churned, so he flopped back down a second later. He¡¯d only felt this way once before, when the orphans had first learned of moonshine. They¡¯d left a gallon¡¯s worth of grain alcohol out overnight, then had downed it the next morning. The Sisters had found them face down in the pews hours later¡ªa full day''s worth of mucking, shoveling, and heaving guaranteed Callam never wanted to drink again.


    Why, then, did his tongue feel heavy?


    A kick brought Callam back to the present. Curling up against the abuse, knees to nose, he tried to get his bearings.


    ¡°I said Up,¡± the guard barked. ¡°You¡¯re sure this is the right room?¡± he added a moment later, his ire now clearly directed at someone else. Another guard? Callam wondered. ¡°There¡¯s no way Pell and Kent got sacked for this,¡± the gruff man insisted, and Callam got the distinct feeling that the guard had just gestured at his prone form.


    ¡°It¡¯s the right one, sir!¡± another voice chimed in, a touch too enthusiastically. ¡°I checked twice. But, uh. Careful touching him, sir. The pastor warned of feral folk, remember?¡±


    ¡°Feral?¡± Callam groaned, turning over to face his tormentors. His hand cupped his eyes. ¡°Just because I¡¯ve fallen asle¡ª¡±


    His sentence was cut short as he finally registered his surroundings. Two men stood above him, leering; the first was tall, with broad shoulders and a jaw as square as a cinder block; the second was thin and young, with the round cheeks of a man who¡¯d never quite lost his baby fat. Each was armored in glinting mail, adorned by a fine blue surcoat, and carried a polished book-bag docking a grimoire.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Neither was dressed in the dirty drab of the city watch.


    And, looking around, Callam found that he was not asleep on the streets, but on the floor of an infirmary of sorts, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. His confusion rose as he took in the sterile smell of the room, the scattered books and pages, and even the looming white walls. All felt strangely¡­familiar.


    Callam screamed as a stomp flattened his hand into the floor. He withdrew it immediately, cupping it to his chest. Thankfully, the pain brought with it his memories; he sorted through them as he looked for words to mollify the men.


    The older guard lifted his boot a second time.


    ¡°Don¡¯t! This isn¡¯t¡­¡± Callam shouted. Helena had warned him that these guards were unlikely to be kind, but he hadn¡¯t expected them to treat him like a prisoner. I am one, though, Callam remembered with a start.


    The guards ignored his pleas. The larger of the two swung his leg out, this time directing his foot at Callam¡¯s chest.


    Having finally gathered his wits, Callam shifted his weight down and to the left. He raised his forearms and deflected the boot, the movement earning him the time needed to dodge a lazy follow-up kick; once he had, he scrambled backwards until stone pressed up against his spine. Though now trapped, Callam had gained a better vantage point. Better yet, he¡¯d found his voice.


    ¡°I¡¯ll need bandages,¡± he stated as matter of factly as he could. Sitting up a little straighter, he glanced down at the imprint of the boot on his hand and tried not to shudder. A thread of pale skin circled his pointer finger: all that was left of the ring he¡¯d donned the night before.


    ¡°And why is that, then?¡± the lead guard asked with a small chuckle. He lumbered forward. ¡°You only need one good hand to Bind.¡±


    ¡°Because, I¡¯m a ward of the Writs,¡± Callam replied in a practiced, sincere tone. ¡°They get a fee, should I fail my binding and go to auction. I imagine being crippled will affect the bids,¡± he added, then raised his injured hand for good measure.


    Of course, Callam had no way of knowing the validity of his words, but the truth mattered little in games of confidence, and Callam would have lied through his teeth to save himself a beating.


    ¡°Sir, is that true?¡± the younger guard spoke up, a pained look on his face.


    ¡°Go fetch Helena,¡± the older man snapped back at him. Whirling on Callam, he whispered, ¡°Boy, you¡¯d do well to wrap that hand up before she¡ª¡±


    ¡°Will do,¡± Callam interrupted. Placatingly, he added: ¡°There is no need for Helena; I¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    The senior guard gave Callam a measured look. ¡°Hold it, Tawn,¡± he instructed after a moment. ¡°Best we don¡¯t bother the family with this.¡± To Callam, he added, ¡°Dress. Yourself and the wound. Before I change my mind.¡±


    Callam quietly let out a sigh of relief. Inwardly, he worried about meeting the caregiver. She¡¯d been the one to suggest that he read the books on the shelf, and he still didn¡¯t know if that had been deliberate guidance or simple coincidence; it felt too great a risk to take. What if she recognized the white band on his finger? Or if she mentioned it in passing to someone who did?


    Rushing to the bed, Callum slipped one hand under the pillow. He grabbed the pendant and string he¡¯d hidden there, fastening the first behind his neck and the second loosely around his damaged hand. Then he leaned down and flipped over the basket that had fallen to the ground. The long-sleeved tan tunic he found inside felt too soft to be truly secondhand, as if its owner had worn it a single time before tossing it aside. The pants were equally fine, and Callam almost tore them in his haste to pull them on. He shoved the bread and cheese Helena had given him into his mouth, rind and all, and chewed quickly.


    Slipping on the pair of sandals last, Callam looked every bit a merchant¡¯s son¡ªhis shirt even bore the Writ¡¯s emblem.


    The guards either didn¡¯t notice, or they didn¡¯t care.


    They were busy talking among themselves, so Callam turned his attention to his hand. His palm was scraped up, and his fingers were all tender to the touch, but he could make a fist without much effort. His thumb, however, was worse off and ached terribly. For a second he feared he might have sprained it, until a knuckle popped and most of the pain subsided.


    Confident his hand still functioned, Callam focused on the stain on his finger. His heart sped up at the sight of it¡ªthe night before still felt like a fever dream. Yet it had been real; he¡¯d somehow found and solved a Seedling. The blemish¡¯s existence proved that.


    What it meant for him, he had no idea.


    Touching the band of white skin, Callam noticed how it was both smooth and slightly raised, like a scar. With a jolt, he realized that it was the only part of his finger that hadn¡¯t started to bruise¡ªthe stained skin seemed impervious to damage, in the same way that a scar seemed impervious to hair. Unfortunately, that was the only abnormal thing about it.


    On a whim, Callam brought his hand close to his face and whispered to it, all the while glancing around to make sure the guards weren¡¯t listening in. He¡¯d heard stories of mages who¡¯d named their Seedlings and spoken to them, so he figured he¡¯d give it a try.


    No luck¡ªno ring appeared on Callam¡¯s finger. Not that he¡¯d really expected it to. Walking over to the side of his cot, he sat down, unsure of what to try next. He began to feel a bit crestfallen; he¡¯d really hoped the Seedling would give him an edge in the trials, but it seemed he¡¯d need to bind successfully for it to do anything magical at all.


    Callam was not given much time to fret, however, as the older guard suddenly barked, ¡°Tawn, cuff the kid. Magic him too. Should help with the pain.¡± Looking Callam dead in the eyes, the man said, ¡°try something stupid, and the Writs won¡¯t mind what I do.¡±


    He needn¡¯t have worried. Callam had no intention of giving the guards any grief. He watched as Tawn approached, then stood still as the man secured a pair of manacles behind his back.


    ¡°Sangud,¡± Tawn recited.


    Magic traveled down Callam¡¯s arm, its warmth tickling him as it mitigated the pressure behind his blackened fingernails. The spell subsided after a moment, leaving Callam¡¯s right hand mostly numb and slightly cold.


    ¡°Prisoner ready for passage,¡± Tawn announced.

 Chapter Eight: A Pauper鈥檚 Reflection

    "They claim the mark of a man is in his actions.


    But I have killed in a second,


    and spent a year finding the words to tell you why."


    ¨CThe Hanging of Zaled


    <hr>


    Callam did not take well to the emptiness of space, he decided.


    The guards had hoisted him over a shoulder, loaded him onto the haybed of a wagon, unloaded him thirty minutes later, and then walked him through one of the port''s various transport portals. Callam¡¯s disorientation only worsened when they''d arrived¡ªthousands of deafening noises had immediately rushed in to fill the void. Shouts of ¡°Out of my way,¡± and ¡°Over here!¡± had been drowned out by the cries of shopkeepers peddling everything from ¡°Fae Fritters, puffed or popped,¡± to ¡°Eversight Monocles¡ªPort¡¯s best.¡±


    ¡°Welcome to Binding Day,¡± the older guard jeered. His voice was barely audible over the cacophony. ¡°Try not to soil the Master¡¯s clothes when you fail,¡± he added, shoving Callam forward.


    At the push, Callam stumbled, managing a single stride before his sandals caught on the terraced steps. He almost lost his footing, and had to fall awkwardly to his knees to stop his momentum. He¡¯d started to shift his position so that he could get his legs in front of himself, when Tawn hollered, ¡°Catch!¡±


    Callam watched as a little, glimmering piece of metal flew through the air. He groaned, certain that this was the key that would unlock the handcuffs. Part of him wanted to stand up and chase it, but he suppressed the urge. The world was full of people who loved to humiliate others, and he would not let them see him scramble like a dog. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the key.


    It landed soundlessly fifteen or sixteen rows away, any clink it might have made lost in the excitement and fear filling the massive amphitheater. And it was massive¡ªat a half mile wide, it was the largest structure in the city. Thousands of aisles had been dug deep into the ground, tiering downwards, and were now filled by hundreds of thousands of teens and their families. Vendors worked the in-between spaces, somehow navigating their wares through the throngs of people. Some sold food, carrying everything from local delicacies like mutton cake and pureed pumpkin, to holiday staples like elf cider and roasted peanuts. Others peddled charms and trinkets, preying on the gullible and desperate alike.


    Above, kites filled the sky, crafted in homage to the Tower¡¯s beasts. Paper dragons whizzed back and forth on gusts of wind, while the occasional griffin dove down and then soared, perforated paper wings seeming to flap in the breeze.


    Far down in the middle of the coliseum, Callam could just make out the entrance to the Triad Trials. Lines of hopefuls already congregated there; they meandered like ants in the sand, their nervous energy coursing through the amphitheater. Nearby, spectators bartered over spellworked glasses, eagerly buying anything that might help them better see the upcoming competition.


    None of it could distract Callam from the weight of Binding Day. He shifted uncomfortably; his legs felt tender, and he concluded that bruises had already formed on his shins. Honestly, he expected that the only reason he wasn¡¯t in more pain was because of Tawn¡¯s magic¡ªmagic, Callam realized with a start, that might also be numbing some of his emotions.


    ¡°That explains it,¡± Callam murmured to himself. He stared out over the crowds. Today was the most important day of his life, so he should be full of butterflies, or have a stomachache. Feel afraid. Or even eager, like he¡¯d been when he¡¯d inspected his hand earlier that morning. Instead, he was overwhelmed, his head full of questions about the unknown. What would happen if he failed to bind?


    Would the Seedling die on his finger, leaving him with only an ugly stain?


    Nothing is worse than having no answers, Callam thought, and slumped a bit on the steps. It didn¡¯t help that he could hardly think with so much going on.


    Everywhere he looked, there was a blur of activity, from parents chatting among themselves, to children chasing each other up and down the coliseum''s tiered walkways. Twelve summers now Callam had been coming here, and was convinced he¡¯d never understand everyone¡¯s excitement. To him, the whole thing seemed like a charade. It always had, the sentiment having taken root the first time the Sisters had dragged him to the ceremony. They¡¯d treated Binding Day as a grand spectacle. Twice a year, they¡¯d dress all the orphans up in new hand-me-downs, then herd them to the amphitheater as if they were off to watch a play or celebrate a holiday.


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    Sudden, sharp pain drew Callam¡¯s attention to his fingers; without realizing it, he¡¯d been clenching his manacled hands to the point of cutting off circulation. He¡¯d never forget the fervor with which the Sisters had urged him to celebrate each failed binding. They¡¯d insisted that this ceremony was the Prophet¡¯s way of selecting his ¡°Fated Few,¡± and that unbound should be grateful to participate, even if they became Ruddites. Callam had quickly learned to clap whenever Ruddites were carted from ritual to auction block, and then to cheer when those same Ruddites were subjected to the eager haggling of guilds and nobles, all of whom were desperate to secure new indentures.


    A little while after witnessing his first ceremony, Callam had retched. He¡¯d done so quietly, having rushed to the privy to hide his reaction as if it was a fault.


    ¡°Unbound, report to the trial grounds,¡± a piercing voice interrupted Callam¡¯s thoughts. ¡°This is your thirty-minute warning. I repeat, all unbound, make your way to the trial grounds. Tardiness will not be tolerated.¡±


    Thousands of teens stood in unison at the speakers'' words. They crowded the walkways, shoving and shouting in their eagerness to comply. Callam moved to join them, edging his way down the rows to where he¡¯d seen the key fall. A sour taste had filled his mouth that had nothing to do with space-sickness. He swallowed heavily, then grimaced; it seemed his emotions were not as muted as he had thought.


    ~~~~


    Navigating the rafters proved harder than Callam had expected. He was jostled back and forth, unable to push his way through the crowd with his hands manacled behind his back. At one point, a little boy darted in front of Callam, nearly sending him flying. He then was forced to weave around a group of clamoring unbound, only to find himself stuck behind a sullen family of seafarers, each dressed in sailor whites. Soon after, he tried to squeeze past a short teen and her graying mother, who were wrapped in a long hug. The older woman fussed over her daughter¡¯s hair, ensuring each blond strand was perfectly placed, before kissing the girl on the forehead and making her promise three times to stay safe: once in Reldar, the language of common folk; once in Feldic, used only during sermon and taught by the church; and once in words Callam didn''t understand, but whose meaning he could discern from the tender expression on the girl¡¯s face,


    It was a small thing, but watching the two gave Callam pause. It helped him to realize that it wasn¡¯t the festivities he hated. He understood why a parent might want to celebrate their child¡¯s opportunity to earn magic.


    More than that, he could understand why a child might want to make their parents proud.


    ¡°No, it''s how they treat the poor¡­¡± he muttered to himself a moment later, while checking the fifteenth row for the key. He despised how only those with nothing were forced into blind bindings. Sure, wealthy families would often send their second and thirdborn off to Binding Day, but that was a matter of choice. They owned scripted grimoires, after all, so they could ensure a successful binding if they wished. They only opted for blind bindings because scripted grimoires did not allow for customized spells and abilities. And it didn¡¯t really matter if their children failed¡ªwealthy Ruddites always found positions among their own, or with similarly highborn families.


    That never happens to us, Callam thought. We are sent to the mines or the front lines.


    Still, his complaining would change nothing. The only thing Callam could do now was hope to bind successfully. Unfortunately, he was running out of time. He sped up his search for the key and finally spotted it midway down the sixteenth row. It glittered in the sunlight, visible only because so many unbound had already vacated the stands for the trial grounds.


    Callam settled himself down on the steps near the key, and fished for it clumsily. His numb, manacled hands fumbled behind his back as he tried to pin the metal implement against the step. All he managed to do was scratch his knuckles. Then, he accidentally knocked the key down a few rows.


    It landed at the feet of a cluster of students who chatted away as though they didn¡¯t have a worry in the world. Each was dressed in robes bearing the insignias of powerful families. A few even carried Seeker¡¯s pouches, a sure sign of their literacy. None seemed to notice the key, or Callam, when he approached.


    An ember flared in Callam¡¯s chest when he heard how they laughed. The ease with which these teens joked made it clear that they neither feared the ceremony, nor understood why others might.


    Clearly they were the type to treat Binding Day as a holiday.


    Resignation crept into Callam¡¯s shoulders as he called out, ¡°Excuse me?¡± Receiving no response, he raised his voice. ¡°Excuse me!¡±


    A young woman glanced over, and met Callam¡¯s gaze. Chestnut hair fell to her waist and framed her oval face, while little freckles danced on a button nose. She wore fitted blue robes that matched the hue of her eyes and a small bracelet on her wrist.


    ¡°Yes?¡± she said, then smiled.

 Chapter Nine: The Folly of First Impressions

    "You write me as you would a flower,


    All delicate prose and soft words.


    When you write me as you would a hawk,


    Then I¡¯ll know you see me as I am."


    ¨CThe rejection of suitor Xlan


    <hr>


    ¡°Hi. Everything okay? You¡¯re staring,¡± the young woman asked with an arch of her eyebrows. Her ocean-blue eyes danced in the sunlight.


    Callam hadn¡¯t been, actually; he was sure of it. And if he was staring, it wasn¡¯t his fault. There was simply no easy way to explain the situation he was in, short of telling the truth, and he definitely wasn¡¯t about to do that.


    ¡°I, ¡ª¡± he started. ¡°Can you¨C¨C? That key. By the steps?¡± He shrugged his shoulders and wiggled the cuffs on his hands for good measure.


    ¡°Oh. Uhm,¡± the girl mumbled, appearing a little alarmed. Callam''s heart sank at her tone, fearing she might refuse to help, or ask him some prying questions. To his surprise, however, she laughed, then poked a massive teen to her left. ¡°Moose. By your shoe! Can you grab that?¡±


    ¡°What? Speak up! Crow¡¯s foot, it¡¯s miserable in here,¡± the giant belched. At two heads taller than the rest of the crowd, the boy towered over his small group. He cradled a stack of sandwiches in his hands that he was consuming two at a time, and was already balding, as if his hair feared the altitude. ¡°Need enhanced hearing or some¡ª¡±


    ¡°Seriously! Moose, eat with your mouth closed!¡± the girl chided. ¡°Look, just pass him that key, alright?¡± she added, pointing to the floor. Grinning at Callam, she lowered her voice to say, ¡°Don¡¯t mind him. He¡¯s a little deaf. And very dense. But sweet. Like chocolate, you know?¡±


    ¡°Dense?! I can readt rlips!¡± the mountain of a boy said with a scowl, mid bite. Whether that was true or not, Callam had no idea, but he was relieved to see the giant lean over and grab the key.


    ¡°Was topt of our clath too,¡± Moose added, still chewing. Eyeing the handcuffs, he smirked. ¡°Long night?¡±


    ¡°Gods! Who asks that?¡± The girl glowered at Moose. ¡°Sometimes, I wish ¨C¡±


    ¡°That you were bound too?¡± Moose interrupted with a laugh. Ignoring the girl¡¯s stammering, he suddenly froze. ¡°Wait¡­we¡¯re not aiding and abetting, right? Heard they need to cart cowards here sometimes. Worse than desertion, dodging Binding Day.¡±


    The atmosphere grew tense, but Callam was spared a response by the announcer''s lifeless voice. ¡°Attention, unbound, this is your ten-minute warning,¡± it blared out. ¡°Ten minutes remain until grading begins.¡±


    ¡°Grading makes it sound so creepy,¡± the girl said, her smile slipping. Her eyes lost a little of their light, and she wrapped her arms around herself. ¡°What are we? Chattel?¡±


    The young woman¡¯s words hung in the air for a long moment.


    She wore a distant expression that Callam couldn''t place. He tried to formulate a response but none came easily¡ªhe was unsure if either of these teens understood the irony and truth behind what had just been said.


    In the end, he decided to stay quiet. He waited awkwardly for Moose to unlock the manacles, then voiced a hurried ¡°thanks,¡± when they finally released. A quick nod of his head at both of the teens later, and Callam was scurrying down the steps.


    He was thankful to have found a way out of the uncomfortable silence.


    More than that, he was glad to have some distance from the group. An ache had built within him as he watched the way the two friends had bantered back and forth. They¡¯d reminded him of what he¡¯d lost¡ªof what he desperately wanted again.


    His new clothes, once comfortable, now felt a size too big.


    ¡°Hey! Wait!¡± the girl called out, but Callam had traveled too far to hear her.


    ~~~~


    Callam descended from the rafters into a horde of teens standing shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see. Most of the unbound were dressed practically; tunics and breeches for the boys, smocks or kirtles for the girls¡ªclothing good for running, fighting, and whatever else the trials might throw at them. A few had broken convention by wearing their Sunday best to the ceremony, and Callam briefly wondered how they¡¯d fare. All were sweating in the overhead sun, and none paid Callam any attention.


    ¡°Unbound approach! One at a time!¡± a registrar shouted over the din; Callam watched as she funneled those at the front into curved holds for check-in. Scriptors and mages marched by on his left, watchdogs with dark robes and lit grimoires. They laughed, joked, and otherwise maintained the illusion of festivity, but Callam knew their purpose: to make sure everyone toed the line.


    Anxiety began to eat at Callam as he looked around, and the waiting only made it worse. He shoved his way to the sidelines, intent on finding something to settle his nerves. His progress was slow, the masses indignant as he moved against the flow of people.


    ¡°¡ªcareful! Watch it, prince,¡± a stocky boy barked, sizing Callam up before his friends dragged him away.


    Those words were still registering when a girl tripped into Callam, as if to give him a firm hug. Lithe hands searched him for a purse, only to come away empty.


    What? Callam thought. A split-second later, he understood: he was wearing the Writ¡¯s clothing and insignia, so he¡¯d been mistaken for a noble. Everything about his outfit spoke of wealth, from the cut of his shirt to the sew of his pants. To his surprise, they were still clean, having repelled the dirt from when he¡¯d fallen to his knees earlier.


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    That¡¯s why Moose and that girl treated me well, he realized with a start. They likely hadn¡¯t expected that anything was amiss even with the handcuffs.


    Finally, the crowds in front of Callam opened up, revealing a ring of stalls where shopkeepers had wheeled their carts into place. Smaller operations served food from hand-drawn trolleys, while larger ones vended from wagons packed with delicacies. Together, they fed the gathered unbound and their families.


    Callam¡¯s stomach growled; the air was thick with the scent of broth and spiced meat.


    ¡°Breads and pastre, fresh or day-old!¡± one eager woman with red hair shouted at Callam, clearly thinking that he could afford either.


    ¡°Crown¡¯s cobbler and mapleberry mead,¡± another called out, just as enthusiastically.


    Callam frowned, then walked away from both merchants. Had he showed any interest, real or feigned, they would have hounded him further. Better to pretend he didn¡¯t care.


    He passed by the remaining vendors in a similar fashion, all the while acting like he was growing more off-put. Only once he¡¯d done a full sweep did he visit the first stall again. This time he tapped his fingers on his linen pants in feigned annoyance; anything to appear even more like a spoiled noble peeved by slim pickings.


    Hoping to win his business, the baker didn¡¯t press Callam as he browsed¡ªdidn¡¯t notice when he slipped a hand into her pastry tray. She even offered him a complimentary drink of water when he appeared to change his mind with a shake of his head.


    After stepping far enough away from the vendors, Callam bit into the flaky dough. The stolen treat was covered in honey and a tad too sweet, so he was thankful he had the water to wash it down.


    As he ate, the line of unbound thinned before him. One by one, they were collected by a mage with sunken eyes and the whiskery beard of a goat.


    Soon it was Callam¡¯s turn, so he migrated with the remaining teens towards the registrar. While he walked, he itched at the stain on his finger¡ªthe behavior was quickly becoming habit. A glance downwards confirmed that the scar had not changed at all. The Seedling was still stubbornly dormant.


    ¡°Next!¡± a voice commanded, and Callam stepped up to the white dais. It looked remarkably like a pastor''s pulpit, and was manned by a stern woman in a drab cassock who checked each conscript off a flowing list.


    ¡°Name and birthdate?¡± the lady snapped, clearly in no mood for delays.


    ¡°Callam Quill, June 1st,¡± Callam said.


    ¡°Height and weight?¡±


    ¡°I¡­don¡¯t know? Been a while since I was last measured,¡± Callam replied sheepishly. Weigh-ins weren¡¯t exactly commonplace in the orphanage.


    ¡°Well, step up, then,¡± the registrar said, gesturing impatiently. She reached a hand into a brown bag that was lying by her side and pulled out a dull grimoire and a small reading stone.


    ¡°Let me see here. Indango,¡± she chanted. Strains of white light condensed in the air, spinning together in what looked surprisingly like a ball of yarn before settling in the center of the lens.


    ¡°Callam Quill¡­ Callam Quill¡­ Ah. Here we are. Five feet, seven inches. One-hundred and forty-two pounds,¡± the registrar announced, then her demeanor suddenly darkened. ¡°Ward of the state. A thief too, by the look of your clothes,¡± she accused loudly. ¡°No matter,¡± she said, her mouth shifting into a thin line. ¡°The Book binds all and judges accordingly. You will get the comeuppance you deserve. Next!¡±


    With that, Callam was ushered over to the fenced proving ground; he tried his best to hide his flushed face. He knew shame and thought he¡¯d mastered it. As a kid, his cheeks had burned whenever he¡¯d been forced to beg, and his stomach had knotted with every bite of stolen bread.


    This was different. Being dismissed on the streets was one thing; strangers would see his tangled hair and dirty knees and shun him silently. They would not out him publicly, as the registrar had just done¡ªshe¡¯d taken from Callam what little dignity he had left.


    Dejected, Callam paced the perimeter of the trial grounds. His mind was such a whirlwind of bad memories that he barely registered his surroundings. He walked past dozens of palisades that littered the arena, shading hundreds of unbound that sought respite from the sun. Callam coughed as his pacing kicked up dust, then scowled when he noticed how dirty the arena floor was.


    ¡°As downtrodden as a Ruddite¡¯s spirit,¡± his sister would have said. She¡¯d always been clever with words like that.


    Callam was still sorting through his feelings when several people around him pointed to the sky¡ªit darkened at once, as if night had fallen early. Suddenly, the arena was in uproar. Hundreds of thousands of spectators surged to their feet, cheering, ¡°The Blessed Few! They are here!¡±


    Seven Scriptors descended from the heavens. Dressed in black and red vestments, they all held a tome in one hand and a scepter in the other.


    Granite columns rushed up to meet them, each taller in turn than the last, until the middle Scriptor found her place on the highest pillar. Green and orange banners unfurled down the monoliths, glyphs and runes drawn across them.


    ¡°Welcome, unbound, to your coming of age,¡± the lead Scriptor proclaimed, her words echoing throughout the coliseum. She was smaller than the other six, with a crackly voice that spoke to her age. ¡°Twice a year we gather in this ceremony, a communion between our people and our Prophet. Today, the Fated Few find their place by his side, while the rest of you fall from his grace. By his whim, may you touch magic. For his gift, you shall toil. Do not disappoint.¡±


    The old Scriptor paused for a moment, and the entire auditorium went silent.


    ¡°I see that I am heard. Good. Recrea Veuocare,¡± she chanted and the six other Scriptors echoed her call. Each of their tomes burned crimson, then tendrils spewed forth from the spellbooks, biting and snapping as they eroded the coliseum floor.


    Unbound scrambled in an effort to avoid the magic; it carved through the grounds and ripped it anew. The earth broke in one corner of the arena, stone cisterns erupting upwards and outwards, their basins filling with silver liquid that glimmered in the sunlight. In another corner, obstacle courses appeared, each with structures that wound up dozens of feet in the air. Circles formed in the last zone, each resembling showman¡¯s rings. Callam knew that area well; it housed the head-to-head grappling matches and was a favorite among spectators.


    Once the magic had finished its work, the old woman declared, ¡°You will each partake in three games before you attempt to bind. One to measure magic. One to test wit. And one to prove your brawn. Those who perform best will be allowed first pickings from the grimoires.¡±


    Another voice spoke up, this one male and gravelly, ¡°The top five contestants will be allowed to bind twice, should their first attempt fail. I¡¯m sure none of you need telling how rare a privilege this is. But remember¡ªa second failure always results in death. We value life over carrion, so only the best among you will earn this opportunity.¡±


    In unison, the Scriptors closed their grimoires and each uttered a phrase Callam could not understand. Magic spiraled upwards and the skies came ablaze with moving images of armies at war. The legions spanned for leagues as they battled with tides of beasts. Then, the scene shifted to nighttime, portraying a man who climbed a tower that reached the stars.


    Suddenly, the shadow of two wings blotted out one of the moons. A maw with teeth the size of horses shone through the darkness.


    ¡°We, the Fated Few, fight against the Winged One and her reign of darkness,¡± seven voices shouted out. ¡°Our Prophet, blessed is he, sacrificed to ignite the first of the twin lighthouses. By his grace, we have become a beacon of hope for this world.¡±


    The crowds exploded at the words. Cheering resonated throughout the trial grounds, so enthusiastic that even Callam was caught in it.


    ¡°Each year, we lose more of our number. Yet, through this rite, we replenish. Let the trials begin!¡±

 Chapter Ten: A Small Magic

    "Light cuts away the mystery. Shines through and leaves you bare. Can you write a story with what remains? Is there more to you than false promises and empty books?"


    ¨CThe Rightbearer


    <hr>


    ¡°Unbound! This way!¡± shouted a mage to Callam¡¯s left. The man had blond hair and a square, clean-shaven face that spoke of a stern demeanor. His right ear lobe was split down the middle, as was customary of a military mage, and he had a gold tag pinned to his green robes.


    At his command, Callam and the nearby unbound marched to one of the waist-high cisterns now jutting out of the arena grounds. Each basin was deep enough to drown in and stretched back at least a hundred feet by Callam¡¯s guess. To him, the cisterns looked remarkably like the port¡¯s canals, except silver liquid pooled within the chambers instead of water. Wild roots clambered along the basins¡¯ lengths, their wooden fingers strangling the stone.


    ¡°I¡¯m Scriptor Norvek. You¡¯re group twenty of sixty-four,¡± the mage said briskly, his tone silencing the group. ¡°Lots of unbound this year. So, don¡¯t get excited if you¡¯re the best in this pod. Won¡¯t mean much unless you¡¯re better than the rest,¡± he said, then emphasized his point by motioning to the hundreds of teens circling the neighboring cisterns. ¡°This trial tests your inherent magic ability. It does not guarantee binding. Only fate does that. High grades simply taper the penalty of contracting a powerful grimoire.¡± Pulling out his own, forest-green tome, he asked, ¡°Everyone clear on our grading practices?¡±


    The chorus of yeses did little to dissuade the man¡¯s monologue, and he continued explaining things every contestant already knew. Callam traced the wishbone pendant as he listened. He tried his best to stay still, yet his nerves made him restless¡ªSiela had scored highly on this trial, and it had been her downfall. She¡¯d run up to him in the stands, all smiles and confidence, and had promised him that everything would be better soon. In return, she¡¯d made him swear that he¡¯d be okay no matter what.


    Back then, Callam hadn¡¯t understood her request; he¡¯d just hugged her warmly, safe in her arms. Later, he¡¯d learned that his sister¡¯s innate magic was powerful enough for her to qualify to bind a three star grimoire. Unfortunately, binding stronger grimoires carried great risks and terrible odds, especially for those without magical bloodlines. Instead of one in ten successfully binding, fewer than one in fifty would.


    Sometimes, people even died.


    Siela had known, though, and had attempted to bind anyway. Anything to give me a better life. Callam''s throat went dry. She¡¯d even smiled and waved when her name had been called. All so I wouldn¡¯t know she was terrified. He wanted to admire that quality in her but missed her too much.


    The crack of the Scriptor¡¯s voice roused Callam from his memories. ¡°Unbound, approach!¡± the man commanded, his shout echoed by dozens of other administrators throughout the arena. Youths scuttled forward, and Callam joined them, releasing the necklace as he walked.


    Imprints indented his hand.


    ¡°These chambers are filled with ichor, a magic repellent,¡± the Scriptor instructed. ¡°The stronger your ability, the further the liquid will move. Try to empty it. Greenwood, Elera you¡¯re up,¡± he beckoned. ¡°May the Prophet prosper within you.¡±


    Hearing her name, a willowy unbound wearing an amber dress neared the cistern. Her face betrayed the unspoken hesitancy that they all felt. She wasted no time, however, and slipped her hands into the liquid. Her body went rigid and a frown deepened on her line-less face. Sweat coated her brown skin and her arms began to tremble, lightly first, then more rapidly until they looked like they might snap. The ichor stayed still despite her efforts.


    Callam had started to wonder if the test had malfunctioned somehow, when Elera uttered a small scream and a ripple broke the ichor¡¯s surface. Droplets began to overflow the vessel, then leaked down its sides and condensed in a pool below. More and more joined their number, until Elera crashed to her knees.


    ¡°No!¡± She cried, trying to stand up. ¡°I can¡­do more.¡± The Scriptor stopped her. ¡°Three out of ten,¡± he announced. ¡°Good for tomes up to level two. Faeble, Jake, you¡¯re next.¡±


    The stocky boy didn¡¯t fare much better. He was able to get the ichor to overflow sooner, but in no greater quantity, and scored a three as well. In fact, no-one in their pod performed exceptionally. Callam watched as a Roryn Mistweather and a Sable Nibwell were called forward, and neither managed to get more than a few drops to fall; each scored a one.


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    Other pods had more success. One unbound created a swell in his cistern, the ichor rising up a good few feet before crashing down. Another created a small twister in his basin that traveled the length of the vessel. Callam hadn''t heard that unbound¡¯s score, but some of the members of his group had.


    ¡°Seven out of ten,¡± voiced a snobbish boy with red hair and a complexion to match. ¡°Finally someone with skill. Pity, don¡¯t you think?¡± he said, then motioned disdainfully to the rest of the group. ¡°To be put in with the likes of them?¡±


    It took Callam a few seconds to realize that the unbound was talking to him. The boy didn¡¯t notice, and barreled on, his chin held so high it seemed as if it would hurt to look down.


    ¡°I¡¯m Airster Firegale,¡± he announced, pushing his hair back with one hand and reaching out for a shake with the other. ¡°From across the bay. Can¡¯t believe they let the street wraiths in. An affront to the Prophet, in my opinion. Nobles should be allowed to bind first.¡±


    Ignoring the outstretched hand, Callam focused on the trial. He¡¯d met his fair share of boys like this one; they frequented the undercity¡¯s taverns and acted as if others should be thankful to wait on them. Callam had been too young to do more than bus dishes, but his sister had occasionally served those patrons to earn extra coin. He¡¯d never forget how touchy they got and how poorly they tipped.


    Unfortunately, the boy didn¡¯t let up. ¡°That¡¯s the Writ¡¯s insignia on your shirt, is it not? My father has business with yours. Imports Firegale wheels.¡±


    Growing irritated, Callam turned to face the boy. He was about to tell him off, when inspiration dawned¡ªfour times now, Callam had been mistaken for someone else because of his hand-me-down clothing. Why not take advantage? he thought, and shook the outstretched hand firmly. ¡°Right! No, can¡¯t say father¡¯s ever mentioned a Firegale. Our stablehand did though. Warned she¡¯s prone to fly right off her axel, mid rut.¡±


    Unable to keep the sly grin from his face, Callam walked away. Part of him felt a bit guilty for taking his frustrations out on the boy, but only just¡ªthe boy had been acting like a jerk. Callam did hope, however, that Helana wouldn¡¯t get into trouble for his actions.


    He¡¯d taken less than five steps when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.


    ¡°Think you¡¯re so funny, Writ? My family¡ª¡± the boy whispered, tightening his grip. Then he appeared to reconsider his words, ¡°No matter. You, and yours, will get your just desserts. Watch what a Firegale can do.¡±


    For all his bravado, Airster wasn¡¯t called up for another few minutes. The pale boy stood around, staring daggers at Callam as his rosacea marinated to a crimson hue.


    ¡°Firegale, Airster approach!¡± The Scriptor finally called, and the boy did not disappoint. Airster shouldered his way up to the cistern, then sunk both hands deep into the basin. The ichor reacted at once. It separated near him and cascading over the walls in continuous ripples until a third of the vessel''s liquid had been freed.


    ¡°Six out of ten. Optimal for level three Grimoires.¡± The scriptor called out. ¡°Great work, unbound.¡±


    A small grin spread across Callam''s face at the score; it seemed he might have made the Writs a formidable enemy, after all.


    ¡°Quill, Callam, you¡¯re on deck,¡± the Scriptor announced, wiping the smile right off. Callam fought the itch to pace, and settled for tapping his foot. He tried to make the behavior as innocuous as possible. Tension crept into his shoulders. As was often the case with time, it lagged when he wanted less of it, and sped up when he needed more. Within a blink, it was his turn.


    Callam walked up to the cistern with heavy steps, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. He rested his hands on its rim and felt the slickness of the basalt under his fingers; the stone was grainy and wet from where the ichor had overflowed. The basin refilled slowly, his reflection distorting in the swirling liquid. Brown eyes stared back at him. His normally thin face appeared wide and his strong jaw, long his favorite feature, looked round and meek. The soft scent of sulfur filled his nose.


    ¡°Well, unbound?¡± the Scriptor urged. ¡°Any time now.¡±


    The plunge chilled Callam quicker than breached river ice. He gasped as his arms went limp, the ichor drawing from his body¡¯s warmth¡ªhe would have shivered, if he could have spared the energy. The liquid weighed on his skin, sticky and viscous, like a layer of mucus.


    Callam pushed against it. He dug his heels in reflexively, and willed the ichor to move. To do anything at all. Tingling built in his extremities as he battled the freezing liquid and fought to keep himself from pulling his arms out.


    I can do this, Callam thought. He¡¯d endured pain much worse than this over the years; real pain, the type that he still carried with him. How embarrassing would it be if he failed here, on the first of the three trials? How could he fulfill his promise to his sister if he couldn¡¯t even make this ichor move?


    Tingling turned to burning as his pores battled the liquid. They repelled it, churning the ichor until it finally gave and sloshed violently over the edge. Bubbles broke the surface, simmering to a boil. His arms suddenly did not feel so cold, and he redoubled his efforts. The ichor began to twist, coiling into a deep, silent whir¡ª


    ¡°Times up, unbound,¡± the Scriptor called out. ¡°Four out of ten. Good for grimoires up to level two.¡±


    Callam slipped, his legs shaking as he fell. He had more to give, he was certain of it, but the arena grounds were surprisingly comfortable under his back.


    ¡°Quill huh?¡± jeered a voice. Airster¡¯s ugly sneer soon filled the view. ¡°I¡¯d heard the Writ¡¯s were all bastards. Figured they¡¯d at least let you keep your father¡¯s name.¡±

 Chapter Eleven: A Pauper鈥檚 Preparation

    ¡°Life''s toil buys pardon or penance. Pay enough and you¡¯ll reach the heavens.¡±


    Perish Tithetaker


    <hr>


    ¡°Are you seeing this?¡± one boy shouted. ¡°By the Poet¡¯s hand!¡± another screamed in excitement. Together they drew Airster¡¯s attention from where Callam lay on the arena ground.


    What¡¯s going on? he thought. His muscles protested as he pulled himself up on shaky knees. Searching around, he spotted the reason for the commotion and his breath hitched.


    Over ten cisterns away, nearer to the middle of the arena, the impossible was occurring. The same ichor that had remained stagnant for so many now reached for the skies. Light caught on the liquid as it climbed upwards and then broke in force and flooded the area¡¯s floor in silver. Blues and golds dotted the grounds where the liquid pooled and reflected the brilliance of the sunny day.


    It was equal parts beautiful and unbelievable.


    ¡°What score do you give that?¡± Callam heard someone ask as he limped over for a closer look. ¡°Prodigy¡­¡± a girl whispered, taking the words right out of Callam¡¯s mouth. In front of him, a wall of spectators thickened by the second, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes to see the unbound responsible for this feat; he could just make out a young woman in the center of the crowd. Her brown hair whipped back and forth, billowed by the force of her presence.


    She wasn¡¯t finished yet. With visible strain the young woman squared her shoulders and pushed her second arm forward to match her first, so that both her palms faced outward toward the cistern. At once the remaining ichor parted down the hundred-foot channel, forming waves that rivaled the swells of a stormy night. More and more liquid crested and crashed over the cistern¡¯s walls until, finally, it lay empty.


    A hush fell over the colosseum. Then a howling whoop broke the silence, followed quickly by a frenzied cheer that grew louder and louder as everyone shouted over everyone else in an effort to be heard. ¡°Excuse me,¡± Callam repeated as he cut through the crowd. He jostled his way forward, elbows and shoulders brushing against him, until he was close enough to recognize the girl at the foot of the cistern. Her delicate features would stand out anywhere.


    That¡¯s really her, Callam thought, and tried not to stare at the unbound he¡¯d met earlier. She must have felt his eyes on her, because she turned to face him and flashed him a shy smile. Hidden dimples formed on her bright cheeks. Her pink lips moved, and Callam had the distinct feeling she wanted to say something. She hesitated, then waved instead.


    Without thinking, Callam pushed his way closer to her. Suddenly, his path was barred.


    ¡°Unbound! This ceremony is no spectacle,¡± scolded a slim mage with a bony neck¡ªwords that might have carried more weight if they held any truth at all. ¡°Back to your cisterns,¡± she commanded, spreading her arms out to corral them. ¡°The second trial is about to begin.¡±


    ¡°Why hold Binding Day here, then?¡± Callam asked in disbelief. He would have said more, but the shuffling of the crowd swallowed his protest; the mass of bodies swept him forward as they moved to obey the mage¡¯s directions. By the time Callam regained his bearings and looked over his shoulder, the girl had vanished.


    Not long after, Callam was approached by the Scriptor leading group twenty. ¡°Follow me!¡± he commanded and assumed a brisk pace, the rest of the pod already in tow. ¡°The next trial will challenge you to outmaneuver your peers,¡± he said while they crossed the arena grounds. ¡°That means you will be in full control of your outcome. For most of you, that¡¯s a godsend.¡± The mage turned and gave the group a pointed look.


    When he turned away, Airster caught Callam¡¯s eye and said arrogantly, ¡°It¡¯s as they say. Some are born to read. Others only to listen.¡±


    ¡°Best you keep your ears clean, then,¡± Callam quipped back, but it did nothing to disarm the noble boy. Airster had scored highest among their pod in the Trial of Fate and everyone knew it. Many seemed to respect him for it.


    Not Callam, though. He¡¯d met drunken sailors less prideful than Airster, and those men thought they¡¯d discovered new land.


    They¡¯d been walking less than five minutes when the outlines of several large obstacles sharpened into view; two wooden towers scalable by rope, a chain ladder that hung from a tall post, and a metal beam too thin to safely cross, could all be seen. Shoulder-width logs obscured the rest of the trial, each sticking up thirty feet or more.


    ¡°Single file!¡± the Scriptor shouted as they queued behind two logs that served as the trial¡¯s entrance. ¡°At the start of this maze you will find a clock,¡± he declared, his voice cutting through several groans. ¡°That¡¯s right. This trial is timed¡ªwe will start at 1:00 in the afternoon. Your objective is to finish with the clock showing as few minutes past the hour as possible. You¡¯ll hear a chime every fifteen minutes of real time that passes¡ªthat part about real time is important, so take note of it. Should you hear a fourth chime, time¡¯s up and your score is forfeit. Am I understood?¡±


    Several unbound nodded at once.


    ¡°Here¡¯s where things get complicated,¡± the mage continued. ¡°Throughout this trial you will find green and red keys that are used to wind the clock. Red keys advance the clock by five minutes; green ones will rewind it by the same amount. As you can imagine, green keys are the rarer of the two¡ªthere are only enough of them for about half of you. Grab a key¡ª¡±


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    ¡°Can we gather more than one key, sir?¡± interrupted a mousy-haired girl in front of Callam


    ¡°Hold your thoughts, unbound,¡± the Scriptor responded stiffly. ¡°But yes. You may collect multiple keys. To exit the trial, you must insert at least one into the clock. When you are finished inserting as many keys as you¡¯d like, alert me. I will then record the time displayed on the clock as your final score. Now,¡± he said, ¡°are there any questions?¡±


    Hands shot up all around. The Scriptor pointed to a tall boy on Callam¡¯s left.


    ¡°So, uh¡ªwill the clock¡¯s face show the actual time, or not?¡± the teen asked, scratching his head.


    ¡°That¡¯s Scriptor or Sir to you, unbound,¡± the mage scolded him. ¡°And no, the clock¡¯s face will not show the actual time,¡± he clarified. ¡°It will tick forward with each minute of real time that passes, but will also move forward or backward in accordance to each key¡¯s use. Your goal is to leave with the clock showing as little time past the hour as possible. How much time has actually passed is irrelevant, provided you finish before you hear the fourth chime.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± the tall boy said, still seeming lost, then hurriedly added, ¡°Scriptor, sir.¡±


    ¡°Sir, can we work together on this trial?¡± another boy called out. He wore an overly large tunic with dirty, frayed ends that hinted at a hard life. Callam liked him immediately.


    ¡°Outside of bodily harm, anything goes.¡± the Scriptor responded. ¡°Yes?¡± he prompted, tilting his chin at Elera, the willowy girl who¡¯d struggled during the first challenge and now had her hand raised.


    ¡°Will the clock be reset between contestants, sir?¡± she asked, her voice steadier then Callam expected¡ªclearly, she¡¯d found her footing.


    ¡°No. It will not.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ if the person before us uses a bunch of red keys on the clock¡­¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯d better have several green keys in hand, or your score will suffer as well,¡± the Scriptor confirmed.


    ¡°How is that fair?¡± demanded the rude girl who¡¯d interrupted earlier. ¡°I thought this was the Trial of Wits, not luck.¡± Several people nodded at her words.


    ¡°Those with wit learn to deal with unusual circumstances, unbound. Those without, complain.¡± Raising a hand, the man quelled any further questions. ¡°Healers are stationed throughout this obstacle course. Call for them, should you hurt yourself.¡± After glancing at his wristwatch, he yelled out, ¡°You have one hour¡ªtime begins now!¡±


    The teens scrambled forward at his words. From behind them, the Scriptor¡¯s voice boomed, ¡°Keep an eye on the clock¡ªthe unbound with the worst time will get a penalty in the final trial.¡±


    ~~~


    Dust kicked up underfoot as Callam sprinted into the maze. Obstacles were his domain, so he hoped to do well here. He weaved through the few teens in front of him, took the lead, and immediately turned to his right. Coming to a stop, he surveyed his surroundings; it would do him no good to waste his energy without a plan.


    This was the Trial of Wits, after all.


    Should I try for a red key? he thought. If I grab one before everyone else, I might finish quickly enough to beat out any unbound with a green key. Even better, I¡¯ll avoid sabotage.


    It hadn¡¯t been lost on Callam that this trial could be fixed. A rich unbound might bribe his way into all the green keys¡ªand a vengeful contestant might collect more red keys than needed, then use them early to mess everyone up.


    Glancing around, Callam gave up on the idea of being the first to grab a red key. He was already too late for that¡ªhe¡¯d spotted four teens racing down a long, narrow footpath ending at a raised platform with a massive red chest.


    That left three other paths, each branching out to different corners of the log maze, and each lined by brown stumps too tall for Callam to see over. A muddy ditch bisected the nearest route and appeared difficult to wade across; several unbound were trying anyway, their shouts of disgust carrying over the distance. Lackwits, Callam thought. Climbing the surrounding stumps is easier. He assumed they¡¯d find green chests down that path, yet was unsure if the route was worth pursuing; it only made sense to go after a green key if it took less than ten minutes longer than the time it took to collect a red one.


    Palisades blocked his view of the last two paths. Several unbound had banded together to climb one of the barriers, while other teens kicked and pushed each other in a scramble to get over the other. Callam could only guess the types of keys they¡¯d find¡ªgreen and red both, probably.


    After considering his options, Callam decided to tackle the route with the foul muck¡ªhis skills as a climber should help him scale the bordering logs quickly. Before venturing down the path, however, he rushed over to the clock.


    The Scriptor had suggested they keep an eye on it. Hints like that were rarely given freely.


    To Callam¡¯s surprise, both Elera and Airster were already huddled around the timepiece. They talked among themselves, but something about how they communicated felt off¡ªthey spoke in hushed tones and kept glancing over in his direction. Still, they parted as he neared and allowed him to pass without incident. Airster did toss out an unsettling smile, but Elera met Callam¡¯s eye and held it with sincerity.


    He was not so easily reassured; he kept his guard up as he hastily inspected the clock.


    The timepiece looked like an upright box. Twin pendulums swung back and forth, and a keyhole pierced the glass face, allowing the clock to be wound. Callam¡¯s mouth went dry as he listened to the gears tick off each passing second. He hated this type of clock¡ªthe Sisters kept one like it and never tolerated any tardiness. They¡¯d sworn that ¡°scars marked where stubbornness prevailed,¡± and had done their best to prove it.


    One lash for each chime missed, he recalled grimly, his fingers scouring the machine¡¯s body for hidden compartments. He found where the seams in the elmwood met, and pressed, hoping to hear a click. No luck. A rapped knuckle on the clock¡¯s face revealed no secrets either, and Callam¡¯s frustration grew.


    He¡¯d lost time for nothing.

 Chapter Twelve: Of Leaves and Locks

    ¡°Sapience is the parasite passed from parent to child.


    Must the world suffer so that you may think?¡±


    ¡ªThe Omen Tree


    <hr>


    ¡°Crow¡¯s foot,¡± Callam swore, his sandals slipping on the thick trunk he was climbing. Kicking off his shoes, he gripped the base of the log with his bare feet, and pushed himself upwards. He¡¯d been right to avoid the trough below; the mud had caked in the heat and a few unbound were stuck in it.


    ¡°I should¡¯ve tried harder for that first red key¡­¡± he muttered to himself. He swung an arm over the top of the roughly hewn wall, heaved himself up, and quickly got to his feet. I¡¯d have guaranteed myself a good score. Callam began to sprint the two-hundred-foot stretch of uneven trunks, his eyes peeled for anything that might turn his ankle. Ahead, the maze¡¯s routes twisted and turned, before converging around a bend. His body, still sore from his failed heist, demanded a moment¡¯s rest, but he refused to fall further behind.


    I¡¯d wager the first key¡¯s about to be turned in¡­ he thought, taking a sharp right, then a left as he followed the wall¡¯s path. So I¡¯ll need to find at least two green keys. One to reverse the five minute penalty. Another to get a good scor¡ªa crimson flare screamed through the air, drawing Callam¡¯s attention skyward. The first red key had been used.


    ¡°Hurry!¡± someone shouted, and Callam took the words to heart.


    Splinters threatened his feet as he rounded the bend towards a monstrous contraption of planks, climbing ropes, and spinning logs at the far side of the maze. Callam counted five unbound already scaling the multi-story obstacle in a search for green keys; the entire structure creaked under their weight. Scaffolding reinforced the west side of each floor, while a web of cables secured the rest. A wheel on the top story unleashed a torrent of water¡ªI¡¯ll have to keep an eye out for that, he thought, watching the liquid drench the unbound in its path. Leaves the size of kitchen tables circled the whole obstacle, green and red chests visible from within their folds. Chains shot out of the structure¡¯s eastern corner¡ªone dangled ten feet above a perimeter wall.


    To reach it, he¡¯d need a lucky jump.


    Going for it, Callam pumped his arms. He leapt, colors blurring by him, and tried not to think about the trench twenty feet below, or the sounds his body would make if he landed wrong¡ªthen his feet found the wood. A split-second later, he was airborne again, so quickly it looked as if he¡¯d bounced. He stretched out as far as he could, a grimace broke across his face¡ªwhether he made it or not, this was going to hurt.


    Fingers touched warm metal, and he clamped down. Pain shot through his right arm. ¡°Poet¡¯s hand,¡± Callam cursed, then quickly locked his legs around the chain. Clambering upside down along its length, he passed over several unbound struggling to tread through the mud. Thankfully, he¡¯d made back some of the time he¡¯d lost.


    A minute later, Callam gripped the cord above his head like a lifeline, determined not to plunge off the contraption¡¯s second story. Healers be damned, he thought, the plank beneath him bucking wildly. There¡¯s no cure for this smell. He chose his next step carefully, testing a log to make sure it wouldn¡¯t spin before committing his weight. It wasn''t the fall he feared, but the landing¡ªa foul liquid had pooled underneath this part of the contraption and stunk of rotten eggs. No riverstone could scrub out such an odor, so a careless slip here would ruin Callam¡¯s new clothes; clothes that promised at least a week¡¯s worth of dignity, where no one looked his way with pity or spite.


    Three quicks steps and Callam cleared the log. He gripped a set of rails nailed into an inclined wall and grappled across them, before jumping down onto some scaffolding. Picking up speed on the flat surface, he used his momentum to scramble over a stack of crates that served as a makeshift staircase to the third story. He winced as he saw two unbound plummet. The first was accidental; the second¡­ he wasn¡¯t so sure. She dove head-first into a gust of wind, only to end up catapulted across the structure amid screams of approval from the crowd. Callam found the reminder that thousands were watching deeply unsettling¡ªhe felt like a show animal being put through its paces.


    Near the far corner of the third floor, Callam approached his first floating leaf, this one holding a green and red chest.


    A quick check confirmed both had been plundered by someone else.


    ¡°Thought so,¡± he said with a slight shake of his head. Too easy to reach. He pulled himself onto a raised wooden walkway, and beelined for his true target; another leaf, this one located thirty feet to his right and accessible only by crossing a series of connected pipes.


    ¡°Move!¡± bellowed a voice behind him. The end of the plank Callam was running on lurched upwards, and he was thrown a foot into the air. He scrambled for a moment, caught his bearings, then landed on all fours. A heavyset boy shoved by, his boots thudding on the wood as he rushed for Callam¡¯s leaf.


    Callam wouldn¡¯t give up so easily. He clambered over a ramp of fallen scaffolding, before getting his feet underneath himself just in time to cross a thin wooden bridge. It cracked, but held, as Callam sped towards the pipes leading to the leaf. Suddenly something pulled at his pants.


    He tumbled, falling hard on his side.


    Arm stinging, Callam peered up. Two boys pushed each other in an effort to be the first to reach the chests. ¡°Those are mine!¡± the heavier one shouted. The other didn¡¯t respond, too focused on crossing the first pipe.


    Springing to his feet, Callam looked for a shortcut. Quick glances confirmed there was no other direct path to the leaf, but a cord hanging from a thick log above gave him an idea. He just needed to find¡­


    There! He thought. On the fourth floor! Callam dashed over to a tall wooden ladder, scaled it, then ducked through what appeared to be the cutout of a window. Next, he raced down a smooth, white platform that bordered the obstacle below. Peering over the edge, he saw the two unbound fighting about half way across the pipes.


    Callam reached the end of the board and yanked at the rope he¡¯d spotted fastened there; the other end was tied up far above, making it a perfect swing. The knot resisted his efforts. He thought about using his teeth, quickly changed his mind, and pulled frantically at the loops instead. Finally the fibers gave. Clasping the freed rope in his good hand, he kicked off.


    A joyous whoop tore past his lips. It was short lived; with a bang, another red flare streamed through the sky. That makes two, he thought.


    He swung fast, too fast, and overshot his target. Soaring to the apex of his swing, Callam returned. This time, he lowered his feet and dug his heels into the leaf¡¯s veiny surface. The vegetation was soft and pliant, doing little to slow his momentum¡ªCallam was almost forced to release the rope to avoid falling from his perch. He resisted, the rough fibers chafing his hands, and managed to keep hold of his escape route.


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    ¡°Idiots! Stop fighting!¡± a girl¡¯s voice cried out. ¡°He¡¯s grabbing the keys!¡± Looking over his shoulder, Callam saw a third teen, this one with blond, tied up hair. Her command roused the two closest unbound, and both quickened their pace along the final pipe. One slipped and fell to the mud. All screamed profanities.


    None of it mattered.


    Callam pried open both green chests and pocketed the keys within. Then he pushed off the leaf, knowing better than to gloat. The stanzas claimed that ¡®the brightest light shuns all others,¡¯ but that never sat well with him.


    The platform Callam landed on was so close to the ground that he could have touched it. Grabbing the nearest rope ladder, he raced up, aware the unbound he¡¯d outsmarted might be in pursuit. Wooden rungs spun under his feet, making each step perilous.


    He hadn¡¯t made it far before another bang echoed throughout the trial, followed by a short trill. Leaning out over some scaffolding, Callam watched as a red flare zoomed into the sky, the third in as few minutes. A second later, a green spark burst alongside it. The Scriptor¡¯s amplified voice rang out, ¡°The first green key has been used! The time to beat: eight minutes, fifty seconds.¡±


    With four red keys turned in, Callam knew his chances for a top score were slipping fast. ¡°Wish they¡¯d just tell us how many green keys are left,¡± he whispered, massaging his bruised hand. There¡¯s twenty-two of us, so there¡¯s likely no more than twelve green keys, total. Counting my two, there¡¯s around ten still in play¡ªassuming the Scriptor¡¯s honest. Callam wasn¡¯t so sure that he was. It seemed odd that they¡¯d been given an hour to complete a trial most would finish in under fifteen minutes.


    Something just didn¡¯t add up.


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you¡ªwe do this my way!¡± Airster¡¯s abrupt shout cut short Callam¡¯s thoughts. After reaching the top of the mess of ropes he¡¯d been climbing, Callam crouched behind one of the boxes littering the third floor. He snuck towards the noise, only to see Airster push Elera, make a rude gesture, and climb away.


    Where¡¯s that lackwit headed? Callam thought, following from a distance. The greed on Airster¡¯s face told Callam everything he needed to know, so he watched the boy like a hawk. Airster made for the west side of the obstacle, clumsily jumped over a crate, then almost fell as he swung along a set of climbing ropes.


    So much for the agility of nobility. Callam had always assumed the wealthy would be trained for these types of trials. Apparently, he¡¯d assumed wrong. He squinted up into the sun, surveyed the sky, and smiled¡ªthere was Airster¡¯s target: a leaf floating about fifty feet off the ground, right by the waterwheel.


    Even better, Callam saw a clever way to reach it.


    Sprinting to the floor¡¯s edge, Callam seized the bottom of a long, diagonal rope ladder connecting the southern side of the third story with the northern side of the fifth, then raced up its rungs. Two more bangs, another trill, and the Scriptor¡¯s voice cut through the trial, ¡°The top time remains unchanged.¡± Underneath Callam the flimsy ladder shook like a kite¡ªhe fought to keep his grip, his hands slick with perspiration.


    Reaching the halfway point, Callam twisted the ladder in one smooth motion, and let go¡­


    He landed in the net below. The mesh spanned to the foot of the waterwheel¡¯s tower, and Callam crawled up to it, then pulled himself onto a set of rickety boards that spiraled up to the wheel.


    He raced up the planks, water splashing underfoot, his eyes glued on Airster¡ªthe boy had cleared the fourth story and was now trying to force his way through a web of thick cables. A chime rang out¡ªfifteen minutes were up.


    Callam barely heard the sound, so intent was he on his prize. He reached the everflow wheel, grabbed onto the spinning rim and rode it past its crest. Sliding down its far end, he sloshed back and forth through a winding channel and landed right on his tailbone less than twenty paces from the leaf.


    Eyes watering, Callam got to his feet. Movement in the corner of his vision proved that Airster was on his heels. Almost there, he thought, his heart racing. The leaf¡¯s two closed green chests were so close he could almost touch them¡ªall he had to do was cross a thin, ten foot beam that reminded Callam of the narrow walkways stitching together Port Cardica¡¯s roofs.


    He spread his arms, strode across, and leapt down onto the leaf.


    A loud grating sound scraped behind him. Ignoring it, he leaned over and flipped open the tops of the two green chests he¡¯d found.


    Both were empty.


    That¡¯s¡­ he thought. Why would¡­ Callam spun around in a frenzy. He was too late¡ªAirster and Elera stood on the other side of the gap, each holding a green key in one hand and a metal bolt in the other.


    They kicked the beam they¡¯d unscrewed, and it crashed to the ground.


    ¡°Told you someone would fall for it,¡± Airster said to Elera, a smirk plastered on his red face. Turning to Callam, he added, ¡°Guess it¡¯s true: fools rush in where the wise wait.¡±


    Callam wanted to swear, to shout, to do anything to feel less stupid, but he held his tongue. He knew when he¡¯d been beat; he¡¯d never thought to question if Airster and Elera¡¯s fight had been an act. Now he was stranded¡ªa jump in any direction promising death.


    Like it or not, he¡¯d been outwitted.


    ~~~


    Callam¡¯s neck baked in the sun as he counted the seconds. He¡¯d been stuck on the leaf for over five minutes¡ªan eternity in this race. Five more flares had filled the sky, three red and two green, and the Scriptor had announced that just about half the contestants had finished the trial.


    The only good news, if Callam could even call it that, was that he could smell muck; the leaf had started to drift downwards and it wouldn¡¯t be long before he could hang off its side and fall to the ground below.


    I should have known better, he reprimanded himself for the tenth time. He¡¯d learned young not to act hastily¡ªhis sister had realized early on that she couldn¡¯t dissuade him from thieving, so she¡¯d dedicated herself to helping him plan for every eventuality. He could still remember how she¡¯d harped on and on about the ¡°what ifs¡± and ¡°what abouts,¡± until he¡¯d become so irritated he¡¯d yelled at her to leave him alone.


    I always hated being told what to do. Callam thought, sadly. He ran his hands over the Seedling¡¯s scar for comfort. How stupid I was. Siela had never seemed to mind his stubbornness, though. She¡¯d simply wrapped him up in a hug and reminded him that he was all she had. And that she¡¯d ¡°be there, no matter what.¡±


    Feeling safe like that, then having it be torn away? Callam wouldn¡¯t wish it on anyone.


    His heart hurt. He shifted his weight to look over the leaf¡¯s edge, unable to forget the last time Siela had helped him out of a tight spot; he¡¯d been ten, and it had been the eve of Penance. All the Port¡¯s penny-pawners had closed to observe the holiday, so Callam should have had easy pickings. Yet, unbeknownst to him, a wave of Oceanstriders had chosen that night to attack¡ªtheir onslaught brought all the Seekers and Scriptors sea-side.


    Battle meant business, and pawners were profiteers to the last of them; the shop owner had pushed open the front door while Callam was still picking the lockbox. Callam¡¯s mind had gone blank. He¡¯d hidden behind a counter, his heart in his mouth, certain he¡¯d be caught.


    His sister hadn¡¯t frozen, though. She¡¯d spotted the shopkeeper from across the street and had run inside, screaming for help. The curious man had followed her out of the store, and Callam had snuck out behind them.


    ¡°I¡¯d have done anything to buy you more time,¡± Siela had told him later that night. And then, a few months later, she was gone.


    With a heavy sigh, Callam looked down. The ground was not far off, now. He grabbed the leaf firmly, intent on draping one leg over its side. Before he could, however, the leaf caught a breeze and began to flip like a capsized skiff. Callam tried for a better grip, but his fingers couldn¡¯t puncture the thick vegetation.


    Resigning himself to a less-than-graceful landing, he jumped.


    The mud felt cool on Callam¡¯s skin as he trudged through the slosh. He¡¯d sunk up to his knees, and flecks of dirt splattered his mouth and face. He would have spit in disgust, or lamented his ruined clothes, if he hadn¡¯t been so focused his sister''s words.


    More time. The phrase echoed in Callam''s head. There was something there¡ªsomething he was missing. He was sure of it.


    Suddenly, his eyes lit up.


    Reaching under his shirt, he grabbed hold of the bone pendant. Perhaps the sailors were right. Perhaps wishbones were lucky, after all.

 Chapter Thirteen: Witless

    ¡°To some a book has four corners. To others, eight.


    It is simply a matter of perspective.¡±


    ¡ªUnknown


    <hr>


    The third chime cut through the obstacle course like a gong. Hearing it, Callam relaxed; he was covered in mud and stunk worse than a militia¡¯s latrine, but had made it back from his detour with time to spare¡ªall he had to do now was enact his plan.


    Assuming I¡¯m even right, Callam thought. He wiped off as much muck as he could, then began to shuffle his way back over to the trial entrance. Otherwise, I¡¯ll be punished for being last. His pace slowed, and he was suddenly aware of how parched he was. Trial penalties carried a heavy toll, especially if an unbound failed to bind¡ªhe¡¯d seen Ruddites branded for poor performance, their faces distant, hands chained, with auctioneers circling. He could imagine the burn of the iron, the¡ª.


    That won¡¯t happen. Callam took a deep breath and repeated the affirmation once more before his fear could settle. Then he sped towards the clock and the unbound gathered there, trusting the movement would help calm his mind.


    This was not the moment for self-doubt. He would win this trial¡ªneeded to. He had a promise to fulfill, and placing in the top five was his best chance for the ink to take.


    ¡°I¡¯ve one red key, sir,¡± a young blond woman in a seamstress¡¯s kirtle shouted out, her voice sounding weary. Callam, now within earshot, counted another twenty teens behind her, all crowding around a water barrel. By their chatter, it was obvious that they¡¯d already finished.


    One short. A look around confirmed it: another unbound was running late as well.


    ¡°Very well,¡± the Scriptor replied, and motioned the girl forward.


    She obliged, stepping up to the clock and inserting the key. A twist later, and the longer hand sprung forward. ¡°Finished sir!¡± she called out.


    ¡°Final time, forty two minutes, thirty-seven seconds,¡± the Scriptor shouted.


    Wincing, the girl departed, joining some girls chatting among themselves. Another group of unbound stood sullenly in one corner, an anxious look about them, while Airster, Elera, and a boy Callam didn¡¯t recognize stood separately, appearing smug.


    A hush fell over all of them as Callam approached. Airster¡¯s smirk told the whole story¡ªhe¡¯d proudly shared the results of his ruse with everyone else.


    Callam ignored their stares and made his way over to the barrel. A crisp ladle of water later and he was ready.


    Approaching the Scriptor, he called out, ¡°What¡¯s the time to beat sir?¡±


    ¡°Firegale, Airster¡¯s, seven minutes forty-four seconds.¡± the Scriptor responded stiffly.


    Callam nodded once, the news coming as no surprise. He¡¯d seen a volley of emerald sparks earlier and had concluded then that someone had turned in a handful of green keys, likely Elera or Airster. From the spattering of red flares that immediately followed, he¡¯d guessed a few unbound had raced to insert their keys right after those two. The only unusual thing was that he¡¯d counted eleven green trills total, one more than he¡¯d expected.


    Twelve or thirteen minutes of real time left, Callam thought, running the numbers in his head. Seventeen minutes left on the clock, so I¡¯ll need... It was a short window, but he¡¯d make it work.


    "Unbound,¡± the Scriptor spoke curtly, bringing Callam back to the present. "You''d best hurry up.¡±


    "Understood, sir," Callam said, raising a hand to the wishbone around his neck for luck. Then he walked towards the clock, his steps slow and deliberate. He¡¯d committed to his plan, so he might as well play to the crowd¡ªthieves were showmen at heart, after all.


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    As he walked, Callam pulled two green keys from his pocket and spun them around his fingers for all to see. Reaching the clock, he inspected it for a long moment, then shook his head, as if struck by a sudden thought. He let his look of confusion linger, waiting until he heard the first bout of snickers.


    And then, Callam sat down. The floor was uncomfortable, covered with mulch and twigs, yet Callam rested his hands behind him and leaned back, appearing as if he didn¡¯t have a care in the world.


    More people laughed, some outright jeering. Others stared at him suspiciously, as if trying to decipher why he was so calm. Callam took special note of these teens; he hoped he wouldn¡¯t have to fight any of them in the final trial, as they adapted quickly to new information. Only one unbound seemed excited at the delay: the girl who¡¯d gone just before him¡ªshe¡¯d looked stricken when he¡¯d flashed the green keys.


    Finally, Airster had enough. ¡°Has your nib run dull, Quill?¡± he mocked, eliciting a few more chuckles from the crowd.


    Callam ignored the taunt, unbothered by the barb at his surname. Street kids were quick of the tongue, and he¡¯d heard much worse over the years. About ten minutes left, he thought.


    ¡°What¡¯s the hold up, lordling?!¡± a long-faced boy demanded, thumping over to where Callam was seated. Dressed in a common brown smock, this unbound looked like he had more forehead than sense. ¡°Not all of us want to sit around and laze!¡±


    Callam covered his mouth at the words, stifling a yawn. He was sore, and tired. Maybe he could¡­ No, that would be too much.


    Angered by his silence, the boy turned to the Scriptor. ¡°We,¡± he said, jabbing a finger at himself, and a few others, ¡°scored well on this trial, and want to see our families before¡ª¡°


    ¡°Have the unbound all finished? Have you heard a fourth chime that I somehow missed?¡± the Scriptor cut in, his eyes dangerous.


    ¡°¡ªno. No, sir!¡± the unbound said quickly, mollified. Walking away, he grumbled, ¡°Enjoy the penalty, lackwit.¡±


    Eight minutes. More quiet whispering, but everyone now seemed content to watch him make a fool of himself. Airster and Elera had moved away, clearly writing him off as mad. Callam began to tune them all out.


    Seven. He was beginning to feel anxious and closed his eyes. He always felt this way right before a score. The planning was easy. Execution, he could handle it. But those few moments before? They ate at his stomach.


    ¡°Faeble! Finished yet?¡± piped a high-pitched voice Callam didn¡¯t recognize. With a burst of glee, she exclaimed, ¡°I scored best in our group. Just under five minutes!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re stuck here!¡± Faeble hollered back. ¡°This boy, he¡¯s lost his script! Come take a look¡­¡±


    Six minutes of real time left, ten or so on the clock. Good enough, Callam decided. Poet¡¯s hand, but he hoped this would work. He opened his eyes to a small crowd surrounding him; nothing like that girl had earlier, but at least forty people from various pods were watching.


    Standing, Callam looked to the Scriptor for any hint that he was on the right path. No luck¡ªthe man¡¯s expression remained as unreadable as a Ruddite.


    Here goes nothing, Callam thought, leaning towards the timepiece. He moved for his keys.


    ¡°T¡­ time to beat, sir?¡±


    Turning with the crowd, Callam saw a panting unbound covered head to toe in mud, his overly large smock more dress than tunic. His hands clutched a small pile of red keys, and his smile was all grit.


    Callam almost laughed. This whole time he¡¯d been afraid that he was wrong, when really he should have feared that someone else would figure this trial out. He wasn¡¯t mad¡ªhe liked this particular unbound.


    Of course, that didn¡¯t mean he would let the boy best him. In one motion, Callam pulled from his pocket the two red keys he¡¯d detoured for when he¡¯d stayed behind in the maze. The first went into the clock, and Callam twisted.


    The timepiece¡¯s longer hand jumped to the fifty-five minute mark. Several people pointed at him in confusion, gawking. Yet everyone kept silent. Even Airster didn¡¯t run his mouth.


    ¡°Poet willing, this is written.¡± Callam recited the words softly, as if they were a prayer. He inserted the second key, his heart pounding. He turned.


    The clock made a horrible screeching noise. The minute hand shook, and Callam¡¯s breath hitched¡ªhis whole trial, his whole Binding Day, came down to this moment.


    With a jolt, the hand shuddered to the top of the hour; it paused for a beat, then shifted ever so slightly towards the one-minute mark.


    Fingers tucked into his pockets so that no one could see them tremble, Callam said, ¡°Finished sir.¡± The words came out as barely more than a whisper.


    The Scriptor held Callam¡¯s gaze far longer than was necessary. His eyes were deep, calculating, as if they were searching Callam for something. Then the man¡¯s stony face broke out into a thin smile. To the newcomer in the muddy tunic, he shouted:


    ¡°Time to beat: eight seconds.¡±

 Chapter Fourteen: The Price of Power

    I cannot tell you why the boy dreamt¡ªonly of what.


    He dreamt of fire on cold winter nights.


    of flight, when the sky was bright.


    of stars, and holding them tight.


    But most of all, he dreamt of freedom.


    Not of the type that is given or bought.


    But of the type that is innate to life.


    <hr>


    ¡°WHAT?!¡± the long-faced boy exclaimed, then repeated the word twice more. He stomped his anger out on the floor, all interest in seeing his family seemingly forgotten. Callam found the boy¡¯s tantrum rather embarrassing¡ªthe trial had concluded over five minutes ago. Plenty of time for everyone to adjust to the truth.


    Airster and Elera, for one, had heard his score with tight lips and no complaints. That they¡¯d yet to look his way was only upside, as far as he was concerned.


    ¡°Circle around,¡± the Scriptor said, and Callam stood slowly from where he¡¯d been resting his head against the bark of a thick trunk. His heart still raced from his earlier endeavor; he¡¯d taken to idly watching the flock of celebratory kites while he waited for his pulse to slow. Walking over to the mage, Callam allowed himself a smile¡ªhis gamble had paid off. If everything went well in this third trial, he¡¯d be positioned to finish in the top five of Binding Day.


    ¡°Each of you has now been tested twice,¡± the Scriptor declared loudly once everyone was on their feet. ¡°Your innate magic measured, your intellect deter¡ª


    ¡°What intellect?¡± the words seemed to escape the angry boy¡¯s mouth before he could think to hold them back. His eyes widened in shock, yet he was unrelenting. ¡°This trial was a farce, a¡ª¡±


    ¡°Forswin,¡± the Scriptor said, and in a step, loomed over the boy. ¡°Insolence does not a Scriptor make.¡± In a voice so quiet Callam had to strain to hear it, the mage added, ¡°Should you find it impossible to hold your tongue, the auctioneers will do so for you.¡±


    The boy shrunk at the admonishment, looking as if he¡¯d swallowed dirt. His words, however, had an impact; soon the blond girl who¡¯d come in last spoke up. ¡°Sir,¡± she said, her face crestfallen, ¡°I¡ªit would be helpful for me to understand. Why create a trial where someone wins simply by doing¡­nothing?¡±


    The Scriptor regarded her, then each of them in turn. As he did so, his posture sagged slightly, and some of the ire behind his eyes cooled. The bags beneath them seemed suddenly more pronounced. ¡°Unbound, the purpose of this,¡± he said, motioning to the maze and the stands in one sweep, ¡°is to prepare the lucky among you for the responsibilities of Scripture. To some of you, Binding Day is a chance at a better life, to others it is a familial responsibility¡ª¡±


    And for many, a fast path to enslavement, Callam thought bitterly. Yet even he could see that the man was honest in his convictions.


    ¡°¡ªto this nation and its prophet, Binding Day is more,¡± the man continued. ¡°Scriptors carry the hopes and dreams of our people¡ªa people that would crumble without our sacrifices in the Seeker¡¯s Tower. You¡¯ve seen the beasts. It is the duty of the Fated Few to fight and die for the magic needed to protect our walls.¡± A weary look came over the man once more, and the fervor drained from his words. To the long-faced boy, he said tiredly, ¡°the Tower cares not for the whims of man. Its puzzles do not follow our rules¡ªact as you did today, think the way you thought, and you will die. This Trial,¡± he said, turning to face the maze, ¡°had several solves, yet only two promised a top score.¡±


    ¡°Callam found one of them. The other? Not a single unbound thought to check if they could use the same key more than once.¡±


    A stunned silence fell upon them as the mage¡¯s words sank in, broken only when Faeble, the stocky boy on Callam¡¯s right, laughed and said, ¡°Poet¡¯s hand, but it¡¯s obvious¡ªdon¡¯t bring a torch when a flint will do.¡± Callam nodded, feeling foolish, and by the stricken look on everyone¡¯s faces, he wasn¡¯t the only one. All that risk, and¡­ he shook his head. Mind wandering, he began to drift apart from the group. His mud-soaked pants were stiff from the heat, and he reflexively grimaced¡ªCallam had enjoyed wearing something that didn¡¯t chafe.


    ¡°Stealing the tide next, bookblessed?¡± a soft voice asked. Callam almost jumped. Bookblessed? Only the port¡¯s orphans called the lucky that, the phrase catching on several years earlier when a foreign girl had struggled to find the word for bound and had used blessed instead; the street kids had laughed, but the term had stuck. The seaslang was another surprise, yet Callam immediately recognized the unbound behind him¡ªand clearly, their shy demeanor had been an act.


    ¡°You still took second,¡± Callam replied, slowing to let the boy in the tattered smock catch up. Together, they walked past a few more obstacle courses, following the rest of the group across the grounds. ¡°Almost had me too, I only figured the trial out in the last few minutes,¡± Callam said after a moment. ¡°Why haven¡¯t I seen you around the docks?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m from just north o¡¯ the city¡¯s solarium. Drunkards make easy marks but, um, scholars seem to get flustered when you rob ¡®em¡ªwon¡¯t report you to the guards.¡± The boy said, speaking so quickly his Relder dialect bled through. He must have noticed too, as he flashed a grin and added, ¡°I¡¯m Hans, by the way,¡± in perfect Cardic.


    ¡°Hans, what type of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Unbound, listen up!¡± the Scriptor called out, cutting the conversation short. They¡¯d approached the area¡¯s final zone, where Callam could see dozens of small and large rings outlined into the ground.


    ¡°As always, the final trial on this blessed day is standings-based,¡± the Scriptor declared. ¡°That means you will not be competing against this group; instead, you will participate in a series of winner-take-all matches against unbound who¡¯ve performed similarly to you. Your performance now will dictate your final placement during the Binding Rite,¡± the mage said, his eyes scanning the group. ¡°May the Prophet be with you all.¡±


    Callam breathed in slowly. All right, he thought, suddenly aware of the dirt under his toes, the vastness of the sky above, and the immensity of the stands surrounding him. He felt the eyes of the crowd and knew that for the street kids among them, he was their hope. Bookblessed. The orphans always promised each other that if they survived a binding, they would help the rest.


    Yet none had kept their word.


    Selia would have, Callam thought.


    ¡°I¡¯ll¡ªuh, see you at the Tower,¡± Hans said, his voice resuming its soft and nervous tenor. He pushed his unkempt hair out of his eyes and nodded resolutely at Callam. The rest of the group was similarly rushing through their goodlucks and goodbyes, with the exception of Airster, who¡¯d pulled Elera aside and was talking to her in a hushed tone.


    This trial¡¯s the most important, Callam thought, centering himself. It wasn¡¯t long before the Scriptor started shouting out names and ranks¡ªthose with poor standings went first.


    Within minutes, Callam¡¯s name was called, and he learned he¡¯d placed in the top hundred. The majority must have scored poorly in the first trial, he realized. That wasn¡¯t uncommon; the priests likened magic potency to rain¡ªjust as some years there were floods and others droughts, so too were some generations of unbound blessed and others barren.


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    ¡°Fourteenth ring,¡± the Scriptor instructed Callam, then conjured a folded, white band with his grimoire.


    Callam took it, confused. He threaded his way past several ongoing matches, covering his ears as he closed in on his grappling ring. The constant boos and chants of, ¡°Grab her, push him¡ª¡± and, ¡°Stand fast!¡± were hardly muffled by his hands. He knew it would only get worse as the final trial progressed¡ªPort Cardica¡¯s people were nothing if not boisterous.


    A side-step or two later, as well as one near collision with a bloodied young woman, Callam reached the fourteen notches carved into the dirt.


    ¡°QUILL?¡± yelled a female Scriptor in bright yellow robes and matching sandals as she jogged up to him. Her tome was slipped into a thin satchel worn loosely around her neck, and her left earlobe was cut to army standard.


    ¡°Yes?¡± Callam replied, dropping his hands from over his ears to avoid looking tense.


    ¡°You¡¯ll¡­ participating in¡­ matches¡­ when¡­ prelims¡­ finished,¡± she shouted, pointing at the ring.


    ¡°PARDON?¡± Callam shouted back. He was pretty sure she¡¯d said that he¡¯d be up after the preliminaries concluded, which was what he¡¯d expected. Usually the first two rounds of the third trial acted as a way for those who¡¯d placed poorly to catch up.


    ¡°The Prophet sav¡ªClamorix!¡± she enchanted, and a transparent bubble flowed out from her grimoire, expanding until it surrounded the two of them. With a small snap, its edges became rigid, and Callam could suddenly hear. ¡°Really, how can they expect us to talk when it¡¯s so loud,¡± the Scriptor said, then looked over her shoulder. ¡°Best we keep this between ourselves,¡± she whispered conspiratorially, ¡°Us Scriptors aren¡¯t to use spells unless it¡¯s strictly necessary¡ªintegrity of the ceremony and all that.¡±


    Callam nodded dully; with her complete lack of military rigidity or Scriptor superiority, this mage was unlike most he¡¯d ever met, and he wasn''t exactly sure what to make of her.


    ¡°You¡¯re up in three minutes. First round, it¡¯s you versus her,¡± the mage said, pointing to a girl on the other side of the eight-foot ring. ¡°Lose and you¡¯re out. Force her to yield, knock her out of the circle, or take her white band, and you move to the next ring. That one¡¯s a five-person, winner-take-all. From there, you¡¯ll proceed to a contest of ten with the same rules. Do well, and you might place in the final five. Any questions?¡± she asked, only to hurriedly add, ¡°Oh! No using the band as a garrote.¡±


    Callam blinked, trying to take everything in. ¡°Where do I tie this cord?¡± he said after a moment.


    ¡°Anywhere you¡¯d like, long as it''s touching you! Alright, healers are at the ready¡ªgive no quarter, Quill!¡±


    After what felt like only a second, a nudge on Callam¡¯s shoulder told him it was time. His stomach was in a knot; he¡¯d learned the basics of fighting in an effort to protect his sister from her ¡°suitors,¡± but lacked the training afforded to the wealthy and nobility.


    As usual, the odds are fixed. Callam breathed in and out, trying to settle his nerves. His opponent across the ring looked prepared; clad in workwoman¡¯s leathers, she¡¯d also opted for kicking off her shoes. Her braid was tied up with¡­ Is that the white band? Callam thought. Clever. Going after a woman¡¯s hair was cheap, even by his standards, so he gave up on grabbing the band¡ªhe¡¯d have to find another way to win this match.


    ¡°Unbound, step forward!¡± shouted a bald Scriptor in the distance, his voice magnified over the din. Out of the corners of his eye, Callam spotted dozens of unbound advance into their respective rings. He joined them, readying himself on the balls of his feet. Opening his palm, he unfolded the four-foot band of sturdy, rough cloth. A quick sailor¡¯s loop over his right shoulder left it draped like a sash. Not the best, but it will have to do.


    ¡°Begin!¡±


    The girl was on him quick as a hawk on a hare. She dashed across the ring, arms loose and ready to snatch his band. At once, Callam knew he was outmatched. Fear flickered in his heart; he fed the feeling, let it surface upon his face, and froze for the briefest moment. Then he leaned back just in time. His legs wavered, his body off balance¡­ closer, he thought. A feigned stumble back on the hard ground, a gleam in the girl¡¯s eyes as she rushed to pick his leg¡ª


    Callam side stepped, kicking his heel out. He felt it connect, and in an instant, won. The girl tripped, tried to catch her weight on her off-foot, and was eliminated the moment her toes crossed the white line. The line shone red, and her movements turned sluggish.


    ¡°Victor, Quill, Callam,¡± shouted the eccentric Scriptor in yellow as she ran up to the ring. A cheer broke out, and Callam wondered briefly if her words were being broadcast across the stadium.


    ¡°Your next match is by the Ruddite stand,¡± the mage said, her face darkening, though Callam wasn¡¯t sure why. He followed her eyes to a ring on the border of the trial, right beside the auctioneer¡¯s platform, and swallowed heavily. Two imposing stone chairs, one to celebrate the Prophet, the other his Poet, overlooked dozens of hounding stalls where placards were raised to place bids. So many of us will end up there, he thought. Paraded back and forth like drudgemare.


    ~~~


    ¡°Unbound, forward!¡± the bald Scriptor bellowed, and Callam stepped into the ring along with four others.


    I¡¯ll have to move fast to win here, Calam realized. The four other unbound¡ªtwo boys, both blond, one heavy, one slender and gap toothed, and two girls, tall for their ages¡ªglanced around keenly. It wouldn¡¯t be long until they realized Callam lacked experience and determined him the short straw in the lot. He couldn¡¯t give them that chance.


    ¡°Begin!¡± the mage shouted, and the line around the circle lit.


    Leaping forward, Callam turned plan into action. He ripped his white band from where it hung around his shoulder, then ducked as a boy and girl reached for him¡ªone set of thick-fingered hands came from his left, another set darted in from his right.


    Callam spun, tossing the end of the white band out. It whipped through the air and wrapped around the approaching girl''s leg. He caught its other end; a quick tug, and she tripped, landing hard on the line.


    ¡°Sail, Klavi, out,¡± the scriptor bellowed, and the stands erupted. Betting always became boisterous this close to the day¡¯s end, either from people trying to double their winnings or make back what they¡¯d lost.


    Three left, Callam thought, lashing his band outwards¡ªit had worked once, why not twice? The thick boy adapted, crouching down to center his weight. Callam circled him, careful to avoid the other two as they threw out a series of quick grabs and testing leg picks.


    The husky unbound¡¯s patience wore thin; he charged, seeing red. Yet his movements were deliberate. He was clearly trained, with reach rivaling an eagle¡¯s wingspan. Callam jumped back, toeing the line¡ªhe had no choice or he¡¯d be caught. Behind the boy, gap-tooth grappled the young woman to the ground, pinning her. Callam had a feeling she would tap. ¡°Weavelight, Taven, out!¡± the Scriptor shouted a moment later, and the girl raised an arm in victory. The band she¡¯d scratched free was clutched in her hand.


    Two mor¡ªCallam¡¯s thought was interrupted as thick arms managed to grab hold of him, dragging him down. He wriggled, falling forward and to his side.


    The boy was on him now, kneeling, his size giving him leverage. Callam¡¯s heart pounded; he couldn¡¯t breathe. His mind begged him to tap out. Not yet. He fought the urge to inhale, tightened his grip on his band, and¡ªpain broke across his arm as the boy pinned it, prying at his fingers. He saw stars in his vision and tried to think of something, anything to¡­ There! The tail of the white cord tied around the boy¡¯s left thigh was just out of reach.


    The boy didn¡¯t know that, though. In desperation, Callam swung his unpinned arm out, and at the same time exhaled the last of his air in a triumphant, ¡°Yes!¡± The boy¡¯s face blanched. He shifted for Callam¡¯s free arm, so Callam pushed his right hip up with all his might, flipping the boy.


    The girl, meanwhile, dove onto the boy. Callam understood her thinking¡ªtogether, they could take him out, but independently? Unlikely. He rolled over, and staggered to his feet¡­ just in time to watch the heavy boy somehow sit up, then stand, one arm pinning the young woman against his chest. Seizing his opportunity, Callam lunged¡ªhis hands wrapped around the front of the boy¡¯s sweat-slicked legs, then pulled upwards. A small slip, and the boy¡¯s footing was fouled.


    Callam heaved, dug his toes into the ground, and sent both the standing boy and the girl he was holding tumbling out of the ring.


    ¡°Ashford, Desmo, Blackwood, Lydia, out!¡±


    Callam was onto the finals.


    ~~~


    Elidin Dolor tried not to scratch at his skin. He sat in the stands, shivering, yet was covered head to toe in a sweltering brown shawl. The tremors rarely faded these days, and what little time he spent conscious, he spent scratching. He knew what he would see beneath his clothes, had he dared to look: veins full of ink, pulsing. Engorged.


    How he wished he had not deserted his Binding Day. The compulsions always forced him here, and with each passing season the nights grew longer. Clarity came less frequently. Today would be his last¡ªthe Scriptors would kill him this time for sure.


    How could I have thought myself special? he wondered, fighting the exhaustion that pulled at his eyelids. Labored breath after labored breath filled his hood.


    Freedom from books. From magic¡ªfrom Him. What a fool I was.


    All that was left of Elidin was Broken.

 Chapter Fifteen: More Stones

    ¡°What do you plead?¡± they asked the girl upon her pyre.


    ¡°Witchcraft? Heresy? Tell us now and the burning shall be swift.¡±


    ¡°No water can quell these words that I sing,


    No fire can cauterize your sins


    For when the angels come, they¡¯ll see.


    That it mattered not to you,


    Who sinks and who swims.¡±


    ¡ªA song of flame and wonder, before the first Binding


    <hr>


    Nine unbound joined Callam in the twenty-foot-wide ring. All were strangers¡ªhe¡¯d vaguely hoped to see Hans or that pretty girl he¡¯d met in the stands¡ªand all were worse for wear, their brows matted with sweat and their arms and legs a patchwork of bruises.


    Yet despite their worn appearances, Callam knew he was bound to lose.


    The three girls and six boys each appeared taller, stronger, or faster than he. He¡¯d only managed to win his previous matches through quick thinking and trickery, and by the looks the other unbound were giving him, word had spread of his methods.


    This match isn¡¯t about winning.


    Callam took a moment to clear his mind. It¡¯s about enduring. Surviving the Port meant adapting to fights like this. Angry drunks, petty guards? They enjoyed the kick and chase, but Callam had learned young that if you cowered long enough, and took the beatings quietly, tormentors eventually got bored. He¡¯d lived through shattered bottles and studded boots. Today, he¡¯d outlast these unbound.


    ¡°Begin!¡± shouted the Scriptor before Callam could dwell any further.


    Three steps in a half-circle. Three quick breaths. Callam put distance between himself and the rest of the unbound, his back to the crowd. Thousands were watching. He just needed to wait. To brave these first few seconds, to¡ªnow!


    A brunette girl and a redheaded boy sprinted for the middle of the ring; Callam rushed towards them, intuition telling him what they planned to do¡­ but a stout arm blocked his path, seeking the band tied off around his midriff. Callam dodged the hand, then almost tumbled over an outstretched leg. He tried to leap it, chest pounding, and tripped in his haste. He hit the ground hard¡ªit had been either that or risk spraining an ankle. As if Callam were chum in the water, a dozen eyes turned on him.


    He had to get to the middle of the ring, fast.


    Callam jumped to his feet, moving desperately. Seven feet away, six¡­ He watched as the duo claimed the center, proving his earlier intuition right¡ªthey turned back to back, their bodies shielding each other as they established control over the ring. White bands hung loosely across their chests. They crouched low and spun...


    Like water filling a hollow, three unbound engaged the duo. Two other boys cut Callam off, one stocky, one wide-faced. Even as Callam picked up speed, he knew he¡¯d never make it.


    ¡°Out, Sadin, Lenon!¡± the Scriptor yelled.


    Callam raced forward, turning distraction into opportunity. He shouldered past the muscled boy, feinting a grab at the cord tied around the teen¡¯s neck. Two strides later he¡¯d reached the duo¡ªthey were a wall of red and brown, splitting the ring in half. The girl grappled a short boy with hair drawn back in the Kalpechi style, the boy wrestled a pair of sleek unbound brandishing sneers. A series of quick kicks, an overhead grab, and¡ª


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    ¡°Solstice, Jear, out!¡±


    The audience howled their approval. Callam nodded his head in recognition; the redheaded boy had managed to rip free an attacker¡¯s band while scrapping two versus one.


    I only have a few seconds. He breathed deeply. Hopefully, these two will focus on helping each other.


    Feeling some of his confidence return, Callam engaged a tan unbound. Even mid-combat, the boy was quick-mouthed and full of verbal jabs. Callam ignored a shouted insinuation that his mother was more threadbare than the sheets she kept company on¡ªas long as he kept his cool and stuck to the center of the circle, he¡¯d be safe.


    He just needed to outlast everyone else.


    ¡°Scrale, Orion, out. Mystebloom, Sylvie, out.¡±


    Six left. Callam weaved under the grasp of an approaching unbound, then stood up quickly to throw off his would-be attacker. Staying in the ring had proved easier than he¡¯d first expected; he¡¯d worried the duo would turn on him the second they¡¯d finished their battles, but it was not written.


    Of course, they¡¯d still gang up on him before the trial¡¯s end.


    ¡°¡ªPhiry, to your left!¡± called out a deep voice behind Callam. He ducked just in time to see a set of lithe hands reach through the air where his head had been. Spinning, he faced the willowy boy who¡¯d tried to trip him earlier¡ªat the warning, the boy had shifted his attack towards Callam instead of the duo.


    Callam kicked off the ground, slipping inside the boy¡¯s reach. The boy reacted immediately, pulling his arms back, all elbows and awkward angles, but it was too little, too late. Phiry, the girl of the duo, jammed her shoulder into the boy¡¯s ribcage and sent him tumbling out of the ring.


    ¡°Alden, Page, out!¡± Five lef¡ª ¡°Leona, Winterbite, out!¡± the Scriptor shouted over Callam¡¯s thoughts, only for his words to be drowned out by a ¡°Is that all that¡¯s written?!¡± roared by the redheaded boy behind Callam¡¯s back.


    And then there were four. Callam rolled forward, knowing the redhead would come after him next. Floor met back and Callam was on his feet once more, pushing off as he pivoted his momentum towards a far side of the circle. The duo were on him at once, chasing him round and round the ring. He could taste the kicked-up dust. Would have sworn he could feel their breath on his neck.


    The crowd was in an uproar¡ªtheir shouts like torches in a fog. Screams of Phiry, Thaven, Niles, and¡­ even Callam cut through the din. In front of him, the fourth unbound¡ªa blond with noble garb and eyes like ice¡ªtackled Phiry to the ground.


    This is it, Callam realized, knowing what would happen next: Niles or Thaven¡ªCallam wasn¡¯t sure who was who¡ªwould jump in to help his teammate, leaving themselves exposed. Callam dashed forward, his hands reaching out, his fingers scraping against a tunic as they sought out a band. All he had to do was seize one, and finishing in the top two would be within his grasp. Top one, maybe. He¡¯d fulfill his promise to his sister. He¡¯d stand tall where others faltered.


    He¡¯d¡ª


    Rough fingers gripped his arm, and the world went upside down.


    Callam was on his back, seeing stars. Ringing filled his ears¡ªthe Scriptor stood feet away, shouting, but Callam couldn¡¯t hear a thing. He tried to sit up, only to taste bile. He fought through the nausea, glancing around to find he¡¯d somehow managed to stay in the ring. The three unbound lay in a pile of hands and feet, proving the fight was still on.


    Why they hadn¡¯t worked together to toss him out of the ring or remove his band was a mystery for another time.


    Pushing himself into a crouch, Callam winced. Each movement shot fresh pain through his head. He staggered over to the pile, unsure of what to do, incapable of coming up with any plan more sophisticated than falling on top of them. He saw no knots¡ªthey¡­ they¡¯ve all shifted their satchels to make them inaccessible.


    Callam blinked slowly. Why hadn¡¯t he thought of that?


    ¡°Thaven, Bookwell, tapped out!¡± the Scriptor bellowed. The noise set Callam¡¯s head ringing, and it took him a moment to realize he could hear again.


    A disoriented step later, a dazed glance around, and what Callam saw sent shivers down his spine.


    Girl and boy¡ªPhiry and Niles¡ªwere on their feet and advancing, a flat expression shared between the two. Earlier, he¡¯d thought them allies of opportunity, but by the way they walked in stride, hips and shoulders in coordination, it was clear that they had greater training than the others.


    With a start, Callam¡¯s foggy mind understood. These two were elites, born to families who saw Binding Day as more than a path to power¡ªit was the highest form of prestige. To them, winning was proof that the Fated Few were destined to rule. They were not fools like Airster. They¡¯d seen right through Callam¡¯s nice clothes and known him for what he was all along: an easy target they could leave for last.


    And right now, he stood between them and their prize.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go for his sash, you go for the tap,¡± Phiry whispered, speaking for the first time all match. To Callam, her voice was like a honeycomb, sweet and promising a sting.

 Chapter Sixteen: Why do you Stand?

    They called him Tidebreaker; the Calamity, bringer of the Sea,


    But before any of that,


    He was my friend.


    And your prophecy stole him from me.


    ~~The Poet of Promises


    <hr>


    ¡°Protect the¡­ band,¡± Callam whispered to himself in a daze. Niles raced in from the right, a grin stretching the redhead¡¯s features thin, while Phiry approached from the left. Together they were a blur of movement, two sets of hands reaching out as one, so Callam did the only thing he could: he dropped to the floor.


    In one smooth movement he brought his chin to his knees, then repeated the thought. Protect the band. He hugged the white cloth tied across his chest, knowing he¡¯d somehow have to keep hold of it to finish in the final five¡ªwith three rings of ten battling it out, only the first place in each pod would be guaranteed a spot. Niles and Phiry closed in, their gazes cold. Callam could see his reflection in those eyes, huddled and weak, as he braced himself for the pain he was sure would come.


    And come it did. Callam bit back a scream when Niles pushed on that point between the shoulder blades, his fingers like needles to Callam¡¯s skin. Electricity shot through Callam¡¯s body and he instinctively arched his back¡ªPhiry¡¯s hands were on him now, working the knot across his chest. I¡¯m going to lose, he realized in horror, and thrashed his arm about in an effort to defend himself, but the girl proved too agile. Niles, meanwhile, moved down to pin Callam¡¯s legs; Callam tried to resist, knew he needed to keep his defensive position or Phiry would have an even easier time of it, yet had no leverage. Defeat felt inevitable, and¡­


    A victorious sneer twisted the brunette¡¯s face. White cloth rubbed into Callam¡¯s back as she managed the knot and tugged, the band whipping from its place around his shoulder. One end of it flew by as it uncoiled, and at once Callam felt awake, no longer dizzy, the taste of copper from his bit cheek fresh in his mouth. Adrenaline flowed through him. He grasped the loose end of the cloth before it could be pulled completely free, heard the shouts of the crowd, heard Phiry scream, ¡°Pin him!¡± yet managed to hold firm. With a clear head, he knew exactly what he needed to do.


    He needed to hunker down, to¡­to¡­


    Clarity came when Phiry knelt on Callam¡¯s wrist, bringing her full weight to bear. Ligaments tore, and he screamed himself hoarse, almost losing himself as he fought to keep a grip on the white cloth.


    Somehow he managed it, and he could think clearly again. He needed to be dead weight¡ªhe knew how hard it was to move a limp body. All orphans did; they were made to cut their own free from the gallows, after all.


    Callam¡¯s neck went rigid as he took an elbow to his thigh. It was a distraction but the pain was very real. A knee slammed into his back next, and he found it hard to stay in that focused place where he could think¡ªthey¡¯d been told that punches and kicks were not allowed; knees and elbows, on the other hand, were fair game. Callam¡¯s tongue felt heavy now, and his eyelids drooped. Two blurs on the edges of his vision pushed and prodded him viciously, yet he paid them no mind. He kept his body loose and heavy where possible; only his grip on the cloth was iron.


    They¡¯ll get bored eventually, he thought. Try to toss me out, and¡ª


    ¡°Your win is not written,¡± the honeyed words reached Callam¡¯s ears, and he knew at once that something was very wrong. A hand cupped his head and nails cut into the skin by his neck ever so slightly¡­


    Pain. Pain the likes of which Callam had rarely known coursed through him. He couldn¡¯t breathe and felt his form convulse. Blackness crept in; his will started to fade. All this fighting, and for what? He could give up here, lose his top placement, and Bind successfully anyway. This girl was willing to cheat and had brought a poison of some sort, all for a slightly better chance at a top Binding¡ªwho was he to dare stand in her way?


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    I tap! The words came to Callam quickly, yet he did not utter them. He tried again¡­ but his jaw would not comply. Another wave of pain hit; Phiry had clipped the edge of his chin with her nails this time, and a sensation akin to the crack of a lash wracked Callam¡¯s body. Wetness dampened his cheeks. He curled in closer, eyes closed, face cold against the dirt, and whimpered. Part of him desperately wanted to let go of the band so it would be all over¡ªbut no, surely a Scriptor would soon stop this madness?


    The third cut was more gentle, a pinch to his ear. In that brief moment of fear before the pain overwhelmed him, Callam realized his only option: if he couldn¡¯t speak, he¡¯d have to tap physically. He lifted a leg and¡ª


    ¡®Stand tall where others falter.¡¯


    Like the first bell at dawn, the memory of his sister¡¯s voice broke through the darkness. He could hear her reciting her favorite stanza, his head on her lap, just as she had done when his nightmares had kept him up all night. And with her voice came Callam¡¯s resolve.


    This test was his best chance at Binding, fulfilling his promise, and proving that just because he¡¯d been born to blighted parents did not mean he was fated to become a Ruddite. He would score in the top five, secure those two chances to Bind, and by the Seedling on his hand and everything that was written, he would see to it that the ink took.


    To that end, Callam flailed with wild abandon. He wanted the duo¡¯s guard down and knew they would never fall for him playing dead.


    So, he played desperate instead¡ªhe wanted them to think him in that crazed place where condemned men go right before giving up¡ªand the instant he felt Niles recoil, Callam kicked with everything he had. Simultaneously, he twisted his shoulders, ignoring the fresh pain from Phiry¡¯s nails, and bucked Niles off. Quick on the uptake, Phiry moved from kneeling and torturing Callam to tugging hard at the end of his band¡ªanything to keep him within her reach. Until that moment, she¡¯d been one step ahead of the fight, but when she yanked, Callam followed, using her force to bring himself to his feet. He stepped over her still-kneeling form and saw recognition flicker across her face as she tried to adjust her grip. Then he was finally free of her, his white band clutched firmly in his right hand.


    One step turned to another. With each pace, Callam¡¯s momentum grew, until he was half-falling, half-running towards the edge of the ring. Rounding the perimeter, he didn¡¯t stop at the sight of Niles and Phiry approaching from opposite sides of the circle, east and west.


    Stand tall where others falter, Callam thought. He charged.


    Fifteen armspans, ten. The duo grew nearer, their infuriating smiles all teeth. Callam was sick of these two, hated the way they looked at him, the way they mocked him, the way they chanted his name¡­ no, that¡¯s the crowd, he realized as the buzz in his head began to fade. A roar reached his ears, and in it, a chorus of small voices made his eyes go wide.


    ¡°Bookblessed, Bookblessed, Bookblessed!¡±


    There was no measure to Callam¡¯s stride as he commanded himself onward, nor any metered play of lunge and dodge. Just pure force of will. Eight armspans, six. They had cheated, but he would win here. For the orphans. For Siela.


    He had to.


    With each step, he looked for any weakness. Boy and girl were both three armspans away. Two. His body was exhausted, his wrists shot, and his mouth dry. Sweat-slicked didn¡¯t begin to describe his state. His eyes met Phiry¡¯s; he tried to hold her gaze hostage.


    Poet¡¯s hand¡­ she won¡¯t even¡­ blink! he thought, throwing himself to the left to dodge an outstretched hand. Another heavy step in her direction¡ªhe was in her space now, so he reached for that white cloth around her navel, yet had no real way to untie the knot with one hand.


    ¡°Thirty seconds remain!¡± The Scriptor¡¯s shout was equal parts relief and blow. At least, Callam thought with a gasp, staggering, there¡¯s a time limit. Although in a fight, thirty seconds felt more like a year.


    Two strong arms took Callam under his armpits and heaved him upwards. At once he was airborne, and his only focus was on dragging Phiry down with him.


    Chin to chest, he thought, then was slammed back-first onto the arena floor. Immediately, he rotated over to Phiry, pinning her. This was his chance¡ªhis band went into his mouth, his hands found her knot, and he worked it, fumbling. Cloth went up and under as he undid the ends in a figure-eight motion¡­


    ¡°Twenty seconds!¡±


    ¡°Niles, make him spit it out!¡± Phiry screamed from underneath Callam. She scratched at him indiscriminately, and his mind went white with agony. Twice he felt himself starting to let go, and he almost spat his cloth out when his body demanded air.


    Yet, Callam¡¯s hands functioned on instinct; he was a dock-boy, after all, and this was a poor excuse for a sailor¡¯s knot.


    ¡°Fifteen seconds!¡±


    One arm lifted, white cloth in hand. One arm reached for the ground. Callam¡¯s vision blurred, but he heard the Scriptor shout, ¡°Salvios, Phiry, out!¡± and, at once, Callam tapped.


    He didn¡¯t need to see Niles¡¯ face to know he wouldn¡¯t have survived those last few seconds if he hadn''t.

 Chapter Seventeen: Of Bells and Binding

    From the twig, we take the leaf.


    From the bark, we make the paper.


    With our blood and with our heart,


    We sow the ink that gifts us power.


    But on the rare occasion that she listens,


    We find her words born anew.


    For in a mother¡¯s promise,


    A Seedling¡¯s magic blooms.


    Acorns of the Omen Tree, Verse One.


    <hr>


    ¡°Quill, Callam, tapped out! Your victor is Veldon, Niles!¡± shouted the Scripter as he rushed into the ring. His words fell over a hushed crowd. ¡°So concludes this final instance of the Trial of Brawn!¡±


    Callam glanced up from his place in the dirt, understanding the audience¡¯s quiet¡ªhe too would have wondered why he¡¯d tapped. He took a breath to allow his adrenaline to fade, and felt his anger going with it. He was weary to the bone. Niles, on the other hand, had a look of fury about him that stretched from his clenched fists to his flared nostrils, while Phiry sat with her head in her hands, clearly unwilling or unable to believe the results of the match.


    With a whispered groan, Callam forced himself to his knees¡ªhis arms shook at the exertion, but he ignored them. Screamed congratulations were sure to start any second, so he needed to level his accusations now or risk getting drowned out by the crowd.


    ¡°Sir,¡± he said, ¡°I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Blessed is he,¡± a raspy voice cut through the colosseum, ¡°who finds his feet upon the folds of Fate. That was quite the match indeed.¡± The very dust seemed to compress as shadows pooled where none should be. Then the eldest Scriptor¡ªthe leader of the Fated Few¡ªappeared, her frame a heap of cracked porcelain. With two small claps she woke the crowd, and soon a drumming of hands on knees built within the stands. Hollers began, only to be silenced as the woman spoke again. This time, she directed her words at Phiry.


    ¡°Aklin paint on the nails¡­ Unexpected, but not forbidden. Tricks the mind to think it¡¯s in pain. Clever girl.¡±


    Callam felt his anger rise at the old hag¡¯s words; he seethed when she turned towards the stadium and continued, ¡°It is just to use our privilege, power, and luck to cement our rule. That is what separates man from beast, Scriptor from Ruddite, master from student. But,¡± she said, with a side-ways glance at Callam that spoke of a curator inspecting an oddity, ¡°just as it is natural to use one¡¯s advantages to pull ahead, so too should we commend those who find the resilience to stand above their natural-born positions.¡±


    It''s as if I¡¯ve come to them with tin in hand. Callam''s face darkened. She sees me as charity. It was not her words he found hard to swallow but her off-hand dismissal of Phiry¡¯s cheating. He refused to quietly accept his poisoning¡ªhe¡¯d only played fair during the match because he¡¯d been confident the duo would be disqualified. He should have known better; the rules for orphan boy and highborn scion were not the same.


    Niles'' self-righteous expression made the loss even worse.


    Prophet be damned. I should¡¯ve kicked his ston¡ªthe Scriptor turned, and the arena shifted. At once, the Trials unwound in a whirlwind of wood, stone, and ichor. Callam watched as a forest¡¯s worth of trees and rocks flew through the air, tossed by some grand spell. Ichor followed, splashing and surging in a cascade of silver. Carried by the wind, golden leaves drew every eye.


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    The sound of chimes filled every corner.


    They¡¯re announcing placements now? Judging by the shocked looks around Callam, he wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d been caught unaware. Usually, there was a period of respite after the final trial to allow the competitors to be healed. Callam needed those healers¡ªhis torn wrist throbbed and his thoughts came slowly. Yet he could feel the crowd¡¯s eagerness. Their excitement. Commoners were on their feet, pointing in awe at the hundreds of kites dancing in the Trial¡¯s grand finale, while in the distance, elites had begun to file their way down to the auctioneer¡¯s podium.


    ¡°By the Prophet¡¯s will,¡± bellowed seven voices in unison from across the colosseum, ¡°we welcome Queenskin, Zallorin, of noble blood. Leadership demands from a man three things: great talent, a mind for trickery, and the physicality to topple those who rise against him. With a magic score of eight out of ten, a time under four minutes, and a first-place finish in his instance of the Trial of Brawn, it is of no great surprise that a man of Queenskin¡¯s stature stands tallest among this year¡¯s crop.¡±


    Standing in a nearby corner of the arena, a boy with broad shoulders and a sharp nose had his features magnified across the sky. As one, the crowds screamed his name¡ªthe Queenskins were famous around the port, and infamously callous. All street kids avoided their warehouses for fear of losing a hand or worse.


    ¡°And in second, of Freeman blood and holding this year¡¯s highest magic-aptitude score¡ªLenora Page!¡± A young woman¡¯s face filled the sky amid the roar of the stands. Her flowing brown hair had clearly been tamed into a quick braid, and her eyes so wide with excitement that Callam almost lost himself in them. She made it! he couldn¡¯t help but think, smiling widely.


    Finally, he knew her name.


    Third place went to a Chloe, Penbroke from out of the city. Callam had never heard of the Volin Mires, but the crowd''s uncomfortable silence at seeing an outsider take a top spot did little to quell Callam¡¯s growing nerves. Three groups had made it to the rings of ten. Of those, three unbound took first, and three took second, so Callam¡¯s second-place finish didn¡¯t guarantee him a spot¡­ His stomach dropped, certain he¡¯d just jinxed himself. The Poet had a way of stealing wishes before they came true.


    ¡°In fourth, demonstrating great wit and superior strength, this city¡¯s very own shipping heir, Fleetrest, Niles!¡± Hearing his name, the redheaded boy looked up from where he stood stiff-necked and narrow-eyed, and flashed the skies a broad smile. Callam was pacing now, no thoughts for the mask Niles had just put on, oblivious to anything but the thudding in his own chest. His left hand rubbed the Seedling¡¯s scar as he clung to his stanzas, repeating them over and over for good luck¡­


    ¡°And, finally¡­!¡± the seven Scriptors said as one. Callam¡¯s heart was in his throat now¡ªorphans never made it to the top five. He¡¯d watched the Trials dozens of times, and only his sister had ever come close.


    ¡°In a Port Cardica first, hailing from the Chapelward on Vela Hill, QUILL, CALLAM!¡±


    Callam¡¯s spirits soared¡ªthe crowds screamed, and he found himself covered in goosebumps. Everywhere he looked, people were chanting his name. Cheering for him. I did it, he thought, his hands in his hair. I¡¯m in the top five! He¡¯d made history. With a smile so broad he couldn¡¯t hold back, he spun in a small circle, his shock and joy obvious to the world.


    ¡°Guess everyone knows I¡¯m a street kid now,¡± he whispered a moment later, once he¡¯d regained his composure. Gambled coins were sure to be changing hands at the news, but that was neither here nor there.


    Looking around, Callam stood a little taller. Pride swelled inside of him. By the Prophet¡¯s will, he¡¯d done right by his sister.


    He had not faltered. Now, all he had to do was Bind.


    ~~~~


    The Seer drank deeply from the seeing well, his robes ablaze with power. Magic flowed from hem to lapel, the current lifting his cloak. In an instant he saw what they could not. He knew that once again, their efforts would be for naught. This centennial¡¯s chosen would fail, as had all before him.


    The bindings are of the Prophets¡¯ design¡ªof my grand design. Even now the thought cooled his pride. The bond will come in vestiges of white; the boy¡¯s heart will share its darkness, and its plight.


    Ink will form and fail to take.


    ¡°He will scream,¡± the Seer spoke out loud. He averted his hollowed eyes. ¡°And fight. And break.¡±


    Around him, the Endless ones shuffled their long limbs. Sorrow filled the in-between spaces where their flowers and smiles had once been. Their hope had departed long ago.


    Dozens of potentials, tried and failed. Thousands of years of despair.


    Why had he not bent the knee back then? Why had he not chosen to die, so that the unbound could be free?

 Chapter Eighteen: The Bound and the Broken

    ¡°Before the binding, there were free djinn,


    Fire, ice, earth and wind,


    The four elements, the makings of life,


    He enthralled them all and trapped them within.


    Verse, we branded him. Tried to best him,


    But wherever we turned, she appeared.


    In Lore he found his twin.¡±


    A Manarji wishtale, passed from mother to son.


    <hr>


    ¡°Single file!¡± shouted a Scriptor in the distance.


    ¡°This way!¡± called another in an effort to corral the gathered unbound.


    ¡°To the Binding dais,¡± instructed a third. Hundreds followed the commands, a flurry of rustling robes and nervous conversations.


    Nearest to Callam, the mage in yellow was speaking rapidly. She¡¯d run up to him shortly after the top-five announcement and had explained that she was to guide him to the healers. Once the mages had finished repairing his hand, she¡¯d added that he was expected at the center of the arena. There, they were to meet Niles, Lenora, and the other unbound. The rest of what she¡¯d said had been lost on Callam¡ªhe was having trouble concentrating on anything beyond the nerves eating at his stomach.


    Reality had finally set in.


    Come binding, the majority here will fail. Normally, his top performance would have assured him a shorter indenturement term should he go to auction. However, the debt he owed the Writs for trespassing had already increased the price to his head.


    ¡°Each of you will advance to the podium in turn,¡± the mage said quickly. ¡°I¡¯m sure you already know all this,¡± she added, her expression softening, ¡°and that everything¡¯s overwhelming right now¡ªthe Poet knows I was terrified when it was my turn to bind.¡±


    Callam nodded, a bit queasy.


    ¡°The books will come to you in a variety of hues. Lighter ones are more powerful than darker ones, but what really matters is the number of stars on their cover,¡± she explained as they walked. ¡°You¡¯re approved for tomes up to level two, so I¡¯d look for one of those. I¡¯d personally avoid any one stars¡ªthey¡¯re the weakest of the bunch and will only grant access to the most basic magic. But¡­¡± she glanced around, ¡°there is no shame in opting for one of that level if you get nervous. Don¡¯t let anyone tell you otherwise, understand?¡±


    Seeing she had his attention, she tossed him a reassuring smile. Then her voice dropped to a whisper as she said. ¡°Promise me you won¡¯t try for three- or four-star grimoires, Callam. They will kill you. It¡¯s never worth it."


    ¡°I know.¡±


    And he did. Siela had died after binding a three-star grimoire, and she¡¯d scored a seven on the magic-aptitude test. He¡¯d scored a four, so his best bet was to try and secure a level-two grimoire. If he managed it, he¡¯d climb the tower to develop a few custom spells. With any luck, his Seedling would unlock a unique ability¡ªthen he¡¯d earn enough to ensure the chapel¡¯s commissary was always full. Maybe I¡¯ll be able to afford the orphans some scripted grimoir¡ª


    ¡°Alright,¡± the mage said, scrunching her nose as if checking a chore off some list. ¡°I think that¡¯s everything I have to tell you about Binding. Next, the auction, terrible business that¡­¡±


    In this matter, Callam and the mage, whom he¡¯d learned was called Arlie, arrived in the center of the arena. Throngs of unbound battled for space around the dais, packed so tightly that every step was a struggle. An impatient Arlie shouted at them to move aside, but her attempts to clear a path proved unsuccessful. Groups of auctioneers and bookmakers prowled, jostling with and hollering at the unbound in their way.


    Like shepherds driving a flock. Gambling always peaked during binding, with bettors throwing coins at each failed or successful attempt. It made Callam sick. Most of Binding Day did.


    The coliseum¡¯s floor had undergone its usual transformation from flat to tiered: at its heart, an iron-and-stone chassis wound its way up from the earth until it stood a story high. A concave stage lay at the top of the structure, doused in the reds and yellows of the setting sun, while five basalt fingers extended from the elevated platform, their tips inked black. From left to right, they cast shadows over the gathered unbound. Callam knew that each finger symbolized a principle of literacy¡ªreading, writing, doctrine, knowledge, and sorcery¡ªtenets so vital to the people of Port Cardica that a dozen or more stanzas had been written in dedication to each of them.


    ¡°Riches unread make starving men,¡± he whispered. Siela¡¯s favorite one.


    ¡°Oh, you memorized the stanzas as well?¡± Arlie spoke up. ¡°My tutor¡¯s favorite was ¡®Discipline begins where doctrine ends.¡¯ The most direct of them all, I think, just like her. Forget a line and that witch would bring out a spoon. My brother joked that if we forgot it twice, she¡¯d bring out the kni¡ª¡±


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    ¡°Silence in the presence of the elders!¡± commanded a deep voice. A hush fell over the crowd. The seven Scriptors from the announcement ceremony approached the foot of the dais, tome and staff in hand, and then climbed the spiraling chassis to its peak.


    ¡°Today, we¡¯ve seen the struggles of man. The frailties and triumphs of a society without writing,¡± the old lady said as she reached the front of the stage. ¡°The Gods made us human¡ªthis is true. But it is the book that builds us in their image. Grimoires remove our barbarity. They give us power over history and over scripture.¡±


    Over people too, Callam thought grimly.


    ¡°Shortly, the blessed among you will join our ranks. You will learn grand magics, face great trials, and create the very miracles others pray to¡­ Yet remember, power begets responsibility. Responsibility to our nation, to its walls, and to its people. Do not forget your duty in your rush to rule over others. Heavy is the head that wears the mitron.¡±


    With a turn, the oldest Scriptor found her place in a corner of the stage. One by one the remaining six approached and said their parts, Callam growing more impatient with each passing minute.


    ¡°¡­ fated is he who takes the ink! Fated are we who oversee this rite! By the Prophet¡¯s will and by his might, may you Bind!¡± concluded the last of them. A thunderous clap resonated through the arena as seven wood staffs hit stone in unison. Cracks broke in the binding chassis, a sense of power swelled at its base, and the thousands watching took a collective breath.


    This is it!  Callam''s stomach was a knot of nerves, yet even he was excited. He¡¯d always hated Binding Day, but this part¡­


    This part felt like magic.


    Callam heard the books first, a fluttering of open pages and flapping covers. Their melody was like birdsong: soft, sweet, with notes that touched the soul. He saw them next, the grand flocks arriving from the forever libraries¡ªfrom the Roots of the Seekers Tower where all knowledge was kept. Wave after wave painted the sky in a tapestry of blues, green, reds, and golds, until ten thousand books or more had formed a dome in the heavens itself.


    The Scriptors did not dawdle. ¡°Zallorin, Queenskin, rise!¡± they shouted. Around Callam, the crowds of unbound parted to let the royal boy pass; Arlie took advantage, catching Callam¡¯s eye and pointing to the rest of the top five, who were already near the dais. She shooed him forward.


    ¡°Great tomes of the library! Find here the jewel of our youth!¡± bellowed the Scriptors in unison. At their heralding, Zallorin began his climb of the chassis, his shoulders set and features proud. Even at a distance, he looked regal, and Callam knew that anyone in the stands with a spellworked glass would be zoomed in on the performance.


    The boy reached the platform, and a small podium grew from the stone to meet him.


    ¡°Bind him!¡± The chant began with the eldest Scriptor, and soon was taken up by the crowd. ¡°Bind him so he might read the stories of our forefathers! Bind him so he might correct the past!" the Scriptors'' continued, while the crowd echoed the refrain. Callam felt the power in those words as he elbowed his way to the final five. Maneuvering through unbound with eyes to the sky proved difficult¡ªno one wanted to miss a thing.


    ¡°Bind him! Bind him so he might know doctrine. So he might rule and be ruled!¡±


    Zallorin''s hands were in the air, his face reverent. The tomes were roused by the call; in a spiral of colors they migrated from the heavens to the podium. Callam spotted sapphire, emeralds, and the odd crimson among them, but the books were too far away for him to identify any starmarks. Light caught on the pages of the grimoires as they descended, and suddenly their ink took flight¡ªribbons of pigment whirled and weaved from the books, the images of the stories they shared coming to life.


    A small soldier upon a horse, mid charge; twin dragons on hind-legs spitting fire; an army at war, fighting for lost love; and a thousand more wishtales danced along the ink as it arched its way toward the boy. Some promised grand adventures, knowledge, and the pleasure of debating with those of dissenting thought. Others rang of the occult, of the darkness that lies beyond.


    Together, there was harmony.


    ¡°Bind him,¡± Callam found himself whispering as he reached the others in the final five. Part of him was overcome by the spectacle¡ªreminded there was power in words and warmth in magic.


    The other part of him was cold. Memories of his sister on that stand still haunted him.


    ¡°Beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡± a quiet voice said to his right. There stood Lenora, her ocean blue eyes a mirror of the skies.


    Callam¡¯s voice caught in his throat. Niles had no such reservations. ¡°His victory is already written, girl,¡± the boy spat. ¡°There is no beauty in that.¡±


    All the frustration Callam had felt earlier came back in force. He¡¯d tried to play it by the rules during their bout¡ªtried to avoid any low blow that might get him disqualified, but his reluctance to play dirty had emboldened the boy.


    Turning, Callam snarled, ¡°You claimed my win wasn¡¯t written, remember? Or was that your sister, when she dug her poison into me?¡± Hypocrite.


    ¡°Blame the parables, fool. They spoke our destinies before we were¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shhh!¡± hissed a girl in a heavy northern accent. ¡°De books are making der choice!¡±


    She was right, the books were singing their final song. The hundreds circling had turned to ten, then to five, as more and more determined themselves not a fit. With a playful twirl, another two-star withdrew its ink and streaked away into dusk. Four remained in front of the dais: a sapphire, an emerald, an onyx, and a crimson grimoire. Three stars glowed on each cover, pulsing with an otherworldly light.


    ¡°The books have spoken, child. Four have judged you worthy today. One more than the norm,¡± said the eldest Scriptor. There was an undertone to her voice that Callam couldn¡¯t immediately place. It reminded him of the way the Sisters¡¯ spoke whenever an orphan fell short of the required collections.


    It¡¯s as if she expected better and is disappointed.


    Zallorin''s didn¡¯t seem to notice. Stretching out a hand, the royal boy made his choice. Bright-red ink rippled over tan skin. A blink later, the royal let out a harrowing scream.


    <hr>


    Hi everyone! Know a lot of people don''t read end cards, so adding a little note here! Many of you have commented that you love the story, but that its hard to get lost in a world with only once-a-week updates. As a result, a month ago I started moving towards two times a week--and now I''m happy to announce that starting Monday you can expect two chapters a week, each 1,500 words to 2,000. My goal is to keep this schedule until Binding is over, and hopefully pick it up further from there!

 Chapter Nineteen: The Freedom of Freemen

    It¡¯s always there, magic.


    We might age¡ªmight miss it in the corners of our tired eyes.


    No longer see it in the wind, in the trees, or in summer breeze.


    But children do.


    They pick up a book and know its truths.


    To them, those battles, spells, and djinn are very real.


    While we distrust what we cannot touch.


    ~Archives from before the First Bindings, V3


    <hr>


    Zallorin, youngest kin to Tolbin¡¯s maiden queen, crumpled to his knees and hit the stage with finality. Stains spread from crimson tome to boyish hands, then upwards to his hawkish face. The royal¡¯s cloak, pinned high above his left shoulder, shook with each of the boy¡¯s convulsions.


    ¡°Th¡ªthe ink¡¯s not taking!¡± someone yelled. ¡°Prophet have mercy!¡±


    Callam¡¯s fists whitened. Shouts filled his ears, and hundreds of unbound pressed up against him, yet he barely noticed. Nothing could tear his eyes away from the podium and that slumped body.


    Images shot through Callam¡¯s mind like arrows:


    Siela, hours before binding, nervously trying on their mother¡¯s one surviving dress.


    Siela climbing the chassis, wearing a smile he now understood was for his benefit.


    Siela¡¯s face lighting up in childlike excitement when the three-star tome chose her¡ªeven as a boy, Callam knew his older sister didn¡¯t often get to be young.


    The sound of her screams when the blue ink splattered. That haunted expression on her face¡­ and the painful cuts from the seeing-goggles he¡¯d shattered in his hands when brotherly pride turned to heartbreak.


    ¡°Elsefern! Fabien! Help the boy!¡±


    Just as tinder sparks ember into flame, so too did the elder¡¯s shout rouse chaos into action. Twin Scriptors ran up to the royal, tomes open and ready, unknown words spilling from their tongues as they incanted the secret language of the Seekers. Three menders joined in moments later, identifiable by the healer¡¯s irons sewn onto their robes and by the leech-and-staff insignias on their grimoires.


    At once, five spells intercepted the floating book.


    Of course¡ªroyalty won¡¯t be allowed to die tonight. Deaths were rare during the rite, and even more so among the gentry.


    ¡°Well,¡± Niles sneered. ¡°Twice today the pen has slipped.¡±


    Callam wheeled to face the boy. ¡°That is what you care about?¡± He had half a mind to run onto the stage to help Zallorin himself. Likely would have too, if the five mages hadn¡¯t already sundered the crimson lashings between the book and the boy and moved on to resuscitation.


    ¡°Oh, so you¡¯ve loyalty to the Queenskin? Desperate, perhaps, for their handouts? Or hand-offs? I¡¯ve passed the stocks before. My, how that family punishes thieves and urchins. Inspired, really.¡±


    Bastard. Callam met Nile¡¯s gaze. A solitary vein bulged on the merchant boy¡¯s forehead, and he wore a smile just begging to be punched.


    Tension stretched between the two. Callam ground his teeth. Siela would want me focused, he reminded himself. Not rising to jibes or distracted by nobles.


    Callam glanced away, only to find Lenora staring at the stage, where two healers were helping the royal to his feet. Her lips were slightly parted¡ªsure signs of a person lost in thought. The raised lines of her brow hinted at shock, but where someone afraid for themselves might go pale or flinch, her expression was warm and full of worry.


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    ¡°You alright? I know you''re up next. That¡¯s a lot to take in,¡± Callam asked her.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± she mumbled, then blinked rapidly as if noticing him for the first time. His cheeks burned¡ªhe¡¯d met this girl only once, why was he checking up on her?


    ¡°¡­yeah. The books make the choice in the end. I¡­ well, a lot¡¯s riding on this. My grandma, Moose¡ªsorry, that boy you met earlier¡ªthey¡¯re all depending on me.¡±


    ¡°Moose, he¡¯s, uh, bound already, isn¡¯t he?¡± Callam winced. No one would accuse him of being a wordsmith, that was for sure.


    Lenora gave him a small smile. ¡°Mmhm. Last season. We¡¯ve, um, been best friends since before we could talk.¡± She paused, as if considering her words carefully. ¡°My family hired his to do our Readings. Mom¡¯s a Freeman, so¡­¡±


    ¡°Zallorin Queenskin has failed his first binding! May his later attempt bear fruit. Stand, Lenora Page!¡±


    A stricken look crossed the girl¡¯s face at the sound of her name. In quick succession, she smoothed out her robes, took several breaths, and loosed a few choice curses. Then she made for the dais, her chin held high.


    ¡°It is written¡­ it is written.¡± she whispered as she walked, before gasping and making a quick about-turn.


    ¡°Forgive me, where are my manners? May the books sing your stories,¡± she said stiffly to Niles. More sweetly to Chloe, she added, ¡°Alethesa es mhela.¡±


    To Callam, she offered a hand and smiled slyly, ¡°I¡¯ll be seeing you, Callam Quill of the Chapelward on Vela Hill.¡±


    He took it and shook, confused by her sudden shift in demeanor¡ªit was completely at odds with the nervous girl moments before, or the casual and slightly crude one he¡¯d encountered in the stands. Women were ever an enigma to him.


    Then Lenora was off, for real this time. He watched her go, enveloped again by that strange sense of loss he¡¯d felt earlier in the day.


    After shoving his fingers into his pockets, Callam shifted his attention to the stage. An outstretched hand could mean many things on the streets: an incoming blow, a crude gesture, or a soon-to-be empty-pocket. Rarely did it lead to friendship.


    He really hoped she would bind.


    ~~~


    ¡°Tomes of the Tower,¡± proclaimed the lead Scriptor a few minutes later. ¡°You have seen the greatest among our youth and found him lacking. We hope this Freeman is better suited for your stories.¡±


    Lenora stood on the stage with her palms outwards and eyes closed. If she was bothered by the Scriptor¡¯s tone, she didn¡¯t show it. Callam had winced at the announcement; he¡¯d prefer not being introduced that way.


    She¡¯s likely used to it.


    Where a beggar was a peasant you could kick, a Freeman was a merchant you could scorn. Every tavern Callam had ever frequented was full of jokes about their creed. Why? Because Freemen bought out their indenturement contracts rather than working them to completion. Doing so required saving every coin tossed to them by their masters, while moonlighting as courtesans or cutthroats. The result was that many considered them unclean.


    Callam knew the sentiment for what it really was: jealousy. He¡¯d crossed the crickety pathways to the undercity¡¯s roof-top markets, and met the misers, criminals, and ladies of the night who called it home. Few of them had the smarts to make it as legitimate shopkeepers, yet even they threw stones at the Freemen.


    Whatever prejudice the crowds might have felt, they were not expressing it now. ¡°Bind her!¡± the chant began anew, though less enthusiastically this time. ¡°Bind her,¡± shouted the seven Scriptors. ¡°So she might read and she might grow!¡±


    Above, the floating tomes circled. Callam watched them eagerly, curious to see what Lenora would get¡ªfrom the mutterings he¡¯d overheard earlier, her innate magic talent rivaled that of heroes and queens.


    At first, the books drifted toward her slowly, as if testing the waters. They twirled and spun, each a light against the darkening sky. Then the wind howled. Lenora¡¯s eyes shot open; she was the moon drawing in the tide. Hundreds of tomes surged downwards in a dash to reach the dais.


    Crimsons, sapphires, onyxes, emeralds, and several colors Callam could not name dove toward the girl. They swooped and plummeted, their pages drumming like frantic wings. Two, ten, then more than Callam could count, shot over the crowd¡ªnot leaving from disinterest, no: they were unable to keep pace. The rest weaved as one, then dipped close enough for the unbound to see their stars on their covers before coming to a stop in front of the girl.


    Her expression said everything.


    Lenora¡¯s eyes were wide, and Callam would have sworn he saw tears. He understood that feeling¡ªhe could only hope to be given such a choice. Her mouth moved, but whatever she might have been saying was drowned out by the roar of the stands. They¡¯d clearly never seen anything like this.


    ¡°Silence! Let the girl choose,¡± the elder Scriptor said, her voice carrying none of its earlier spite. If anything, Callam heard respect.


    And what a choice it was. After several tomes flew away, no less than thirty remained in front of the girl, each having found her worthy. Of them, one caught Callam¡¯s eyes. It was golden, with wings of silver etched upon its cover, and stood at twice the size of the others.


    Four stars brightened its binding.


    Lenora didn¡¯t hesitate; she reached out and grabbed the book. Thousands of ribbons flowed out to meet her, gold ink swirling around her hands, arms, and face. From a distance the pigment seemed curious, even playful. Threads of it climbed on her shoulders. Tugged gently at her hair. Even poked her politely on the stomach until she couldn¡¯t help but break out in a fit of laughter.


    Where Zallorin¡¯s first touch had looked like torture, hers looked like an embrace.


    ¡°All welcome Lenora Page¡ªPort Cardica¡¯s first four-star Scriptor of the season!¡±

 Chapter Twenty: A Seedling鈥檚 Selection Part 1

    The Poet promises that ¡®he who writes lives forever,¡¯


    But life has taught me that all stories have an end.


    Yet I pray that she is right and I, wrong.


    For I¡¯ve so many words left to pen.


    The in-margin scribblings of a Scripted Grimoire


    <hr>


    ¡°Niles Fleetrest, approach the stage!¡±


    A smile tugged at Callam¡¯s lips as he watched the boy pale. It was a small pleasure, but he was glad to see Niles nervous; the unbound had expressed no remorse for his earlier actions, nor displayed any embarrassment about his missed predictions.


    He¡¯d even made a face when Lenora succeeded, as if affronted that a Freeman found success.


    After that, he¡¯d run his mouth throughout Chloe¡¯s binding, acting as if he were some oracle and she his supplicant. ¡°It is forbidden,¡± he¡¯d said, sniffing loudly when she¡¯d tried for a three-star grimoire, only to smugly state that ¡°a loose page chooses not where it drifts,¡± when the ink had failed to take.


    Callam hated him for those words¡ªit was the exact stanza the Sisters recited whenever he¡¯d questioned the Prophet¡¯s decrees, always accompanied with time in penance. Poet be damned, I refuse to believe anyone¡¯s win is predetermined.


    ¡°...may fortune favor you, unbound,¡± finished the man directing Niles. ¡°Quill, step forward,¡± he added with a nod.


    Callam did so, taking Niles'' previous spot at the foot of the chassis. Behind him, Scriptors were herding the rest of the unbound into separate lines, ones Callam knew would move much more quickly. They had to¡ªwith hundreds of participants in this year¡¯s trial, the binding ceremony was sure to go late into the night. Auctioneers and aristocrats would eventually tire, so any delays were bad for business.


    ¡°Grimoires of the tower!¡± the eldest Scriptor shouted, her voice like thunder. ¡°Tonight, you have deemed one amongst us worthy so far. Poet¡¯s willing, you will find in Niles the hero that you seek.¡±


    As if in answer, the sea of tomes resumed their grand spiral in the sky. Thousands of splayed covers glittered in the moonlight, their movements a trance of mystery and magic. Power radiated from those pages.


    Are they disappointed with our failures?


    The question drifted through Callam¡¯s mind untethered, and he latched onto it like a sailor would a buoy in a storm. He needed the distraction; he was next, and his stomach was already threatening to turn. For as long as he could remember, he¡¯d been this way¡ªthe first purse he¡¯d cut, his first heist, even the first lie he¡¯d told had made him feel ill.


    It¡¯s not the acts I dread, he thought, gripping the chassis¡¯ railing hard enough that his hands hurt. But the waiting. Movement always dispelled his jitters. But here, where he couldn¡¯t pace or complete small acts of preparation?


    His only option was to think.


    Fears he¡¯d ignored all day burst through. What if the Seedling had chosen wrong? What if he failed to bind? Callam was suddenly aware of how very parched he was. After all, orphans always ended up on the slaver¡¯s block, so who was he to think himself any different? He knew the truth¡ªthat was why he¡¯d tried to steal a scripted grimoire in the first place.


    Callam looked up at the books. Their beauty appeared more lethal to him now, less enchanting than when Lenora had been on stage. Soon they¡¯d finish their dance, judge Niles, and it would be his turn to face the ink. He¡¯d be the one on stage, crumpled to his knees, pupils white, and hands¡­


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°No,¡± Callam promised himself, gritting his teeth against his momentary weakness. The act grounded him. ¡°No,¡± he said twice more. No one knew how the tomes chose their partners, meaning he should have as good a chance as any.


    He¡¯d asked the Sisters about it, of course. ¡°The grimoires decide, boy,¡± they¡¯d scolded him. ¡°And few are fated.¡± To them, childhood was a time for chores, and adulthood a time for servitude. Curiosity had no place in either, lest he bind.


    Siela thought differently. She¡¯d encouraged his interests and, being closer to the Sisters, had pried in ways he could not. At night, she¡¯d turned her learnings into wishtales about clever books and their bonded Seekers. Most she¡¯d invented for his benefit, he¡¯d known. But some carried the ring of truth.


    The books began their descent. Where earlier they had been moths to a flame, they were now fish to a hook. They darted in and out, unsure if they should commit. Five books did in the end. A collage of colors, they flew down in unison, four large tomes circling a smaller one.


    ¡°Crow¡¯s foot!¡± someone shouted. ¡°Another four-star! Two in a season!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true!¡± a high-pitched voice chimed in, and soon everyone was pointing in excitement, their heads swiveling to follow the books¡¯ meandering path. Callam couldn¡¯t help but feel envious. Usually two or three grimoires of that level were seen per year, and while he did not hope to bind anything so powerful, he still craved the opportunity. Besides, Niles had cheated him. The boy deserved nothing, let alone something so great.


    For his part, Niles didn¡¯t seem surprised. He¡¯d kept his expression neutral throughout the Scriptors¡¯ chantings of, ¡°Bind him,¡± his red hair and lean face almost devilish in the moonlight. The four-star¡¯s appearance seemed to only reinforce the boy¡¯s aloof demeanor, drawing little more than a smirk from his features.


    ¡°Silence! Let the boy bind in peace!¡± shouted the eldest Scriptor.


    All went quiet as the five tomes arrived at the dais. The larger four rotated once, then split off, their escort complete. Only a small grimoire remained, its cover a hand-span wide and the color of burnt earth¡ªweak for a four-star. At first, the book circled Niles eagerly, then it paused a foot from his head and oscillated up and down. It held its ink back and tilted its cover forward.


    Callam recognized that expression, having seen it on the Sisters countless times. Appraising. Down-the-nose. Dissatisfied.


    Seconds passed in such a fashion, each feeling longer than the last. Eventually the book made its choice¡ªand so did the boy. With a turn, the grimoire made to fly away.


    Only for Niles to snatch it.


    Several things happened all at once. A pulse of energy shot through the amphitheater, its heat rivaling that of a conflagration. Luckily, it lasted barely an instant; any longer and they¡¯d have been scorched. Brightness followed, and Callam squeezed his eyes shut. When that didn¡¯t work, he blinked rapidly, fighting off the afterimages. Everywhere he looked, blurry silhouettes were moving, the occasional appendage or expression firming into view.


    Screams reached Callam¡¯s ears next. Shouts of ¡°No!¡± echoed through the coliseum, only to be deafened by the elder Scriptor¡¯s screeching, ¡°Stop that boy!¡± Her words were met with gasps of ¡°Over there!¡± and Callam found himself swerving, trying to locate the stage. Cleverer unbound were already scampering away, desperate. I should leave too, he realized, then turned, rushing from the dais. What had Niles been thinking? Forcing a binding was heresy at best, suicide at worst.


    More shouting. Another flash of light, this time skywards. Callam saw the books react, a flock of them flying low overhead. Immediately they took up their brethren¡¯s call, swarming the beacon. Sheets of razor-like paper whipped in the wind¡ªhe did not want to go anywhere near either those grimoires or the people below them.


    Wait, people? Why were Ruddites running this way?


    ¡°TURN BACK!¡± one of them screamed, and Callam almost tripped in his haste to listen. Hundreds of Ruddites were now streaming from the stands, panicked. ¡°What¡¯s going ¡ª?¡±


    ¡°BY THE POET, WHAT¡¯S THAT?¡± yelled an unbound near Callam, and he suddenly understood.


    Something hideous was rising from the rafters. The creature was thin, hard to pin down, its presence shifting when caught by Callam¡¯s eyes. Whatever he did manage to glimpse was massive and grotesque, with muscles bulging in strange directions. Snake-like tendrils sprouted from its mouth and it had no arms, just dark strands that dragged at its side. With one arcing step that seemed to stretch on forever, it planted a foot on the arena floor. A second later, its body expanded like dye in a flask, staining everything between its two legs black.


    Then the thing¡ªa Broken of myth and wishtales, Callam realized¡ªcondensed, and where it had just been wide, now it was tall. It towered above Callam, thirty yards of it illuminated by the moonlight, its empty sockets searching. The monster''s head swept left, a hunger to the movement. A shift in the air and it was looking right. It peered upwards, its chin pointing to the books and beacon, and the tendrils in its maw went rigid as knives. Downwards, and¡­


    A wave of cold washed over Callam. There was something both alien and disturbingly human to the stare the Broken was giving him.


    Need mixed with greed.


    Callam couldn¡¯t explain it, but he was certain that the monster had imprinted on him. He spent no time pondering its size¡ªeasily ten times that of the stories he¡¯d heard¡ªor its intelligence. Instead, he sprinted toward Niles and the Scriptors like his life depended on it.


    Broken were those who had resisted the impulse to Bind. Without a tome in hand, Callam knew his life was at its end.

 Chapter Twenty: A Seedling鈥檚 Selection P2

    ¡°What are beasts but men who cannot read?¡±


    Tobias Kingskin, the Auctioneer¡¯s Stand, Circa 800 AB.


    <hr>


    Dive! Callam¡¯s instincts screamed. He threw himself into a roll, slamming his shoulder on the hard arena floor. Not a second later, something silent whipped overhead, identifiable only by the raised hairs on his arms and neck.


    Where are the Scriptors? Coming to his feet, Callam looked around in desperation. Ruddites were shrieking and scrambling in every direction; many headed towards the pulsating light at the center of the storm of books. He understood their reasoning: from a distance the glow looked inviting, doubly so when compared to the Broken.


    ¡°... STAY BEHIND¡­ US!¡± a shout cut through the wind.


    There!


    A dozen or more Scriptors had taken to the skies, though their commands were barely audible over the clamor of the unbound. Callam sprinted their way, keeping himself low. His only thoughts were of survival.


    Too late, he realized the danger he was putting the Ruddites in.


    Another silence where none should be, and Callam leapt to his right, narrowly avoiding a branch of blackness. Ink splashed from it with a hiss. He landed on all fours, one elbow bent, one straight. Ignoring the jolt of pain, he frantically pushed himself onward. He could not let this thing catch him.


    Others had not been so quick. A piercing cry forced Callam to glance over his shoulder. There he saw a man suspended in darkness, only the whites of his face visible: teeth and eyes.


    ¡°HELP!¡± begged the Ruddite. Callam spun so that he might¡ª


    ¡°Luthxia!¡± incanted a deep voice, followed by a softer ¡°Utia!¡± and a quickly strung together ¡°Dim innet eum!¡± Three spells shot into the Broken with the sound of two ships smashing hulls. The lead mage, a three-star Scriptor with blond hair and a woven beard, sliced vertically with his hand, and where his fingers moved, magic flowed, carving a human-size hole into the thing.


    ¡°We¡¯ll hold it off, Arlie!¡± he shouted. ¡°Get the unbound to safety!¡±


    ¡°On it, Sir!¡± replied the Scriptor Callam had met earlier, throwing herself between him and the beast. ¡°Everything all right?¡± she asked, peering at him with a wild grin. Her trademark yellow hat had been switched for a more festive magenta, and she appeared to be brimming with adrenaline.


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± he managed to get out, his eyes fixed on the looming shape of the Broken. It was a streak of black paint on wet canvas, dulling out its surroundings. Despite their leader''s confidence, Arlie¡¯s companions were definitely not able to handle the thing. Their spells had barely managed to free the Ruddite¡ªink was already filling the Broken¡¯s wound. Even worse, it was preparing for an attack, its tendrils spreading out to draw in air¡­


    ¡°We need to move!¡± Callam yelled. They¡¯d made it less than ten feet when an ear-splitting howl filled the colosseum. A sour, burnt smell permeated the area, and a frigid draft set in, sterile and devoid of life.


    ¡°#%\>~ ¡­ See¡­ l.. ng ~</%#¡±


    Each letter was a garbled mess from the creature''s throat, yet to Callam the message was clear. The Broken hungered for his Seedling.


    Two more explosions rattled the colosseum¡ªCallam guessed Arlie¡¯s team had taken the opportunity to coordinate an attack. Silence stretched and his hopes rose, only for him to hear more words.


    ¡°#%\>~ I¡­ B¡­ ind¡­ Th¡­~</%#¡±


    ¡°Crow¡¯s foot!¡± Arlie swore as they raced past a cluster of cowering Ruddites. ¡°It''s no use. Our spells aren¡¯t doing a damned thing!¡± Callam agreed. They needed the help of the elder scriptors.


    By mutual understanding, he and Arlie gave the crowds as large a berth as possible; there was no telling what the beast would do to the illiterate. Eat them, probably. More spells connected with the monster¡ªArlie turned to fire every few feet while running, but she was a levee against a flood.


    And the waters were crashing through.


    ¡°Callam¡­Why¡¯s it after y¡ªEXTROMA!¡± she bellowed, her words clipped and her grin now a grimace. Green sparks shot from the yellow satchel around her neck, winding their way to the Broken. They boiled some of the ink across its abdomen, then fizzled out before doing anything more.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± he lied¡ªhe wasn¡¯t about to tell anyone the truth. The Sisters taught that the Broken were the weak husks of those who had shed their duty. Clearly, they¡¯d been keeping secrets too.


    Niles was just ahead now. Callam could see the boy¡¯s outline in the distance, his form wavering with each pulse of light from the book in his hands; a surge of energy burst forth from the grimoire every other second, nearly blinding Callam as he closed in. Twin concentric domes surrounded the unbound, both translucent, with the larger of the two spanning over fifty feet.


    ¡°Rush the inner barrier!¡± Arlie called out. She was airborne again, sparks of magic flaring from her feet. ¡°I¡¯ll signal for them to let you¡­¡± her voice grew fainter as she shot toward the far side of the arena.


    ¡°Oh, and Callam!¡± she added, suddenly phasing in on his left. ¡°You¡¯d better pray they hold this beast off, otherwise¡­¡±


    I¡¯ll be bait.


    ~~~


    Plans are paper without ink.


    Callam tumbled through the air, the stanza bright in his mind. Everything around him was a blur¡ªthen he crashed into the ground, rolled once, and came to a stop.


    Cheek to the floor, he worked his jaw. No loose teeth, but he did hear an odd clicking noise. I was so close, too. The Broken had caught him at the last possible moment, its vine lashed him mid-way through the first barrier and threw him aside.


    Groaning, he muscled himself onto his elbows. He should have known better¡ªall street kids learned young to expect the unexpected. They had to, or they¡¯d end up in a noose.


    Behind him, the beast roared again, a horrible sound that echoed off the stands and hit Callam from all directions. He didn¡¯t plan on staying around long enough to find out why it was doing so now.


    Instead, he pushed himself up and raced to the first of the two domes. ¡°LET ME IN!¡± ¡ªNot the most heroic of requests, but it didn¡¯t need to be. A Broken larger than legend was on his tail, and he didn¡¯t want to be eaten.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Miraculously, heavenly, the magic barrier flickered, then fell. Ten Scriptors stood inside the barrier, their grimoires raised.


    Callam didn¡¯t need to be told to duck.


    A barrage of spells shot overhead¡ªicicles the size of wagons that warped his reflection, jets of twisting dragon-flame, and a stampede of moth-like leaves pelted toward the beast.


    Then Callam cleared the golden line on the ground, and the dome shimmered back into existence. He kept on running, straight towards the inner barrier housing Niles and dozens of other huddled unbound. To his left and right, others were doing the same; several had seized the opportunity to enter the sanctuary.


    They didn¡¯t make it far. Another blast of light shot from the grimoire, eliciting screams and forcing Callam to cover his eyes and slow down. Once the spots cleared from his vision, he could see exactly how badly the forced Binding was going, if the scene over the past few minutes weren¡¯t enough of an indication.


    Even from forty feet away, Niles looked dull. Everything about him was muted¡ªhis skin was ghostly white, his red hair more copper than scarlet, and he had shrunk several inches. Occasionally his mouth moved, but no words came out. White ribbons of ink bridged him and the book, hundreds of them covering both his arms and legs. The tome itself appeared¡­ defiant? It fluttered this way and that, flapping its cover angrily. Beads of darkness entered it every second, and it twitched with each one.


    Why isn¡¯t anyone inter¡ª


    ¡°Ruddite and unbound!¡± shouted a thin Scriptor, cutting Callam¡¯s thoughts short. ¡°Make for the inner ring! You don¡¯t want to be caught in the crossfire.¡±


    ¡°What of that boy, sir!¡± asked an older man with a white ponytail and the impressive paunch of a merchant. ¡°And what of our goods?¡± he added a second later, his face pinched.


    ¡°What of them?¡± growled another Scriptor, this one broad as an ox and about as tactful. ¡°Be thankful you¡¯re alive.¡±


    As if to accentuate the point, the Broken chose that moment to smash its strands against the transparent ceiling. The whole arena shook, each swing of the dark vines against the dome like the beat of a massive drum. Callam watched as it alternated its rhythm, looking for any cracks or weakness. Finding none, it shifted instead to battering the thousands of books swirling and diving by its head.


    ¡°Ye¨Cyes, Sir!¡± the older man said nervously, only for him to grumpily mumble a second later, ¡°Could ¡®ave retired at seventy, I could ¡®ave, but no¡­ ¡±


    Together, Callam and the man reached the inner sanctuary. From there, Callam strode past the unbound, past Lenora, who seemed to be caring for some friends, and straight to the elder Scriptors. Five of them were standing in a circle, their hands and tomes raised to the heavens. To Callam¡¯s shock, none of them looked particularly concerned about the Broken¡¯s rampage.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t we fighting?!¡± he demanded, his anger rising. Ruddite were at risk of dying, and the city''s most powerful Scriptors were standing around, doing nothing to help. Why were they prioritizing a hundred innocents over thousands?


    ¡°People die every day, boy,¡± replied the eldest Scriptor, her voice raspy and emotionless. ¡°Do not presume to tell us about duty. We live to protect the next generation of the Fated Few.¡± Suddenly, Callam understood¡ªthe majority of the vulnerable outside the dome were Ruddites, while the unbound cowering here still had potential to Bind.


    He saw red.


    ¡°So what of their families,¡± he spat, pointing to gathered teens. ¡°What of him?¡± he nodded at Niles. ¡°Will you sit back and watch them die?¡±


    ¡°There is no heroism without casualties,¡± spoke another of the Seven. He was bright-eyed, and his voice was off, sand to Callam¡¯s ears. ¡°And that unbound chose his path¡ªwe will not interfere and risk the tome. It is invaluable. Time alone will show if he is fated.¡±


    ¡°I dare you to speak again with such insolence,¡± threatened a third. Then, all three resumed their incantations.


    So what, Callam thought, seething, we¡¯re trapped until the lackwit succeeds or dies, and the Ruddite are chased by the Broken in the meantime? He¡¯d seen the way that monster absorbed people, and Poet be damned, he refused to sit around. He had to do someth¡ª


    ¡°P¡­please¡­ I¡­ Phi¡­ry,¡±


    Callam whirled to see Niles now on his knees, his jaw slack. His body looked aged and wrinkled, yet no one seemed to notice his begging. All five Scriptors had turned their backs to him, robes draped and hoods up. Phiry was nowhere to be seen, likely trapped outside the protective domes.


    ¡°He... lp,¡± the boy coughed. ¡° I¡¯m¡­ S.. s¡­ sor¡­ ¡±


    There was desperation in the stupid boy¡¯s eyes. Remorse. Sorrow and¡­ terror. A deathly fear that Callam recognized, having seen it through spellworked glass ten years before.


    Before Callam knew what he was doing, he¡¯d stormed up to the Scriptors and demanded they tell him how long Niles would suffer. Whether it was her shock at his tone or a grudging respect, the eldest answered. ¡°Hours, as is fitting.¡±


    Callam found himself sprinting. There was no grace to his steps, just the pounding of foot on floor as his strides ate up the earth. He was no practiced soldier; his arms did not pump by his side but flailed with the frantic urgency he felt in his chest. Each heartbeat brought him closer to the boy.


    To the book.


    And to those words he¡¯d sworn so long ago.


    Sliding to a stop, Callam threw his hands onto Niles¡¯ back and tore at the thousands of hair-like ribbons anchored there. The white ink of the four-star grimoire burned his flesh; he was nowhere near powerful enough to withstand it. Bubbles formed on his skin and he screamed¡ªyet he did not stop. He grabbed handfuls more and tugged. Part of him expected the Scriptors to intervene.


    To curse and smite him.


    He had not expected them to watch and whisper. Looking down, he understood. His right hand was alight with magic, and while it burned, it did not boil like the rest of him. His Seedling had awoken, and he used its magic to help him pull more and more pigment free.


    ¡°You will not kill him!¡± he shouted. He poured all of himself into the plea. All those nights he¡¯d cried in the chapel¡¯s commissary when everyone else was asleep, every time he¡¯d bumped into someone with similar eyes and thought for a moment his sister was alive, the dozens of stanzas he¡¯d memorized in her name because she loved them and she was the closest thing to a mom he¡¯d ever known¡ªall of it came out of him now.


    He hated Binding Day. This ceremony had cost him everything, and he refused to allow anyone¡¯s brother or sister to suffer the way he had.


    To Callam¡¯s amazement, the tome responded. Where earlier it had been cold and earthy, now it turned light, almost golden.


    It¡¯s not angry, he realized. It¡¯s desperate. Instead of flapping its cover in a malicious way, it hovered motherly. Yes, it went rigid every time a blot of darkness left Niles, but not from glee. From concern.


    Callam redoubled his efforts. He yanked and he peeled, managing to clear one of Niles¡¯s arms from the tendrils. He started on the other one, using the linen of his tunic to cover his skin wherever possible.


    Two done. Callam had a pattern of burns now, but he ignored the pain and focused on Niles¡¯ legs. The boy was getting weaker by the second. The tome did its best to help¡ªit fluttered around his head, pulling against its own strands with all its might.


    For a moment, Callam foolishly thought they¡¯d make it. His heart fell when a beacon of light burst forth from the tome¡ªthe very same light that had been blinding everyone earlier. The book reacted immediately, trying to shut its own cover, but its efforts were for naught. Thousands of new strands of burning ink found their way to Niles. The unbound sagged to the ground, no longer able to keep kneeling.


    What am I to do? Callam knew there was only one option left, and by the way the book kept bumping into him, it was trying to communicate that too.


    It needed a substitute.


    Trying to bind a four-star grimoire was madness, Callam knew¡ªfailure could mean death. Yet if he did nothing, Niles was sure to die. At least I won¡¯t prolong the rite, he thought, and swiped the tome out of the air. This one was not a forced binding, after all.


    His palm touched a blank page, and pain splintered Callam¡¯s mind. He was but a knot in the tapestry of life. Ideas and memories all slipped away. He floated in an ocean of agony, untethered and weightless, where time had no meaning. Muscles failed him, and he felt his control over language flee. His last thoughts were full of despair. He was not special¡ªwho was he to hope the ink would take?


    Callam awoke screaming. Bright light surrounded him, and every inch of him was on fire. He had no sense of how much time had passed; all he knew was that he was in a rare moment of clarity through the pain. Fatigue nearly took him back to that dark place, but he mustered up his energy and looked to his right. Niles was still covered in deadly tendrils.


    So Callam did what he always did: he tried to bind again.


    Failure meant certain death¡ªbut this time things went differently. First, the tome spun and twirled in welcome. Then, it opened its cover and strands of white pulled him close. They danced along his skin, friendly, excited, almost child-like. His body responded, accepting the tendrils without complaint; ink passed both ways and all of his pain dissipated.


    Exhausted, he shut his eyes, only to gasp out loud a second later. Images played on his lids¡ªbut where he normally saw stars and shapes, now...


    He saw words.

 Chapter Twenty-Two: Bound

    In the Seeker¡¯s Tower, a secret stirred,


    We climbed the floors, uncovered their lore.


    Words were a key, their gift: literacy.


    But there is a weight to newfound skills,


    And a heavy toll we had to fulfill.


    ~~Recollections of the fourth Poet.


    <hr>


    Welcome, Callam Quill, of the chapelward on Vela Hill. You are Tomebound.


    I¡ªI can actually read? Callam pored over the sentence again and again, his breath catching in his chest. He fought the urge to open his eyes, unable to shake the feeling that it was all a dream: he was certain his budding literacy would vanish with the slightest movement. Yet the characters remained¡ªthey were equal parts beautiful and surreal, the calligraphy penned by a painter''s hand. The magic in them teased at his understanding, and he knew with time he could harness and master it. So intense was his focus that he panicked the moment the words began to fade, only for a new sentence to form before him.


    Where ink flows, power resides. Hold your Grimoire, let it be your guide.


    For just a second longer, Callam resisted opening his eyes¡ªif it was a dream, it was a good one, and he wanted to remember it. He let himself imagine he was a great earth mage, climbing the tower and casting spells that raised the very stones. Or maybe he was a windsinger, calling lightning and thunder from the heavens themselves. Then he reluctantly allowed the darkness to fade. Around him circled several Scriptors, their shocked expressions mirroring his own. Flashes of red and green confirmed the battle was still in full force, while Niles¡¯ labored breathing was proof enough that he lived¡ªbut Callam had no mind for that. He used the few loose strands still connecting him to the tome to pull it close. At some point it must have fallen from his grasp, and now it floated shut.


    Mesmerized, Callam let his fingers linger on the brown grimoire¡ªhis grimoire. First, he traced the carved skyline on the cover, finding the nooks and crannies warm to his touch. To him, the earthy tones were more vibrant than muddy, giving the cityscape life. Next, he breathed in. Woodsmoke teased his senses. Callam recognized the smell as birchwood¡ªa favorite cure among leather merchants for its sweetness. Tanneries kept their workshops warm, and Callam had spent more than one night huddled against their rooftop chimneys, shrouded in that smoke to stave off the chill. Lastly, he marveled in the feel of the book; it was hefty, with a weight far greater than its size, and when he split the binding, words spilled onto the white canvas, as if written one by one. Callam was half convinced that time slowed.


    Foreword: For Callam Quill, bonded companion.


    Callam Quill, Mage, Level 0.


    Grimoire Type: Unknown.


    Star Level: Four.


    Skills: Literacy.


    Talents: Streetwise¡ªpuzzles come easily to you.


    Spells: Unknown.


    ¡°Wow,¡± he whispered, still amazed that reading now felt like second nature to him. He raised his brow in confusion a moment later. Skills? Talents? Most of these terms were entirely new to Callam, being tightly guarded secrets. Some, he¡¯d deduced; the orphans traded in information, so they paid close attention to any war-weary drunks at the taverns, both for the easy marks and the free education. Plenty of gaps in my learning remain, he thought, struggling to wrap his head around everything. Soon, new words replaced the old.


    Prologue: Your first spell


    Life grants magic and misery in equal measure.


    All Seekers start somewhere. For some, the words come easy. For you, they do not. Level the source of power in your heart or you will fail to find your start.


    Incantation: Infer Atrea Intus


    Timeline: Sixteen days from first reading


    I have a timeline to learn a spell? Callam grimaced¡ªhe had no idea where to begin. He¡¯d opened the tome right away with the childish hope of learning magic immediately. Now, he wished he¡¯d waited a little longer. Searching for some hint on his next steps, he turned the page. One sentence was written there.


    Proceed to the Eastern Lighthouse (The Seeker''s Tower) to unlock future chapters. May your magic be as endless as your prose.


    No help. He¡¯d just have to figure it out himself. Gently, he closed the grimoire and, after a second, decided to carry it by his side. The tome¡¯s leather heated his hands like a fanned ember and quickly became uncomfortable to hold. I¡¯ll have to steal a bookba¡ª


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°Few are Fated, child,¡± spoke the eldest Scriptor. Distracted, Callam had not noticed her approach, nor that of the six other elders surrounding her. She moved slowly, her ancient body cocooned by her black shawl, each step precise and deliberate. Her head turned slightly from side to side, and the dark pupils of her eyes gleamed. A sharp smile crept on her lips, sending goosebumps down Callam¡¯s spine.


    ¡°To interrupt a binding¡­ secure your destiny¡­ and trample over an enemy¡¯s all at once. The Prophet prospers within, indeed.¡±


    Trampled? Callam worked to keep the anger off his face¡ªthe elders had done nothing to help Niles or to save the thousands stuck outside the protective barriers. Even now, as the battle with the Broken raged on, they chose instead to lecture him.


    ¡°I saved his life,¡± Callam finally said, then swallowed his pride and added, ¡°ma''am.¡± The last thing he wanted to do was make enemies after such an unconventional binding.


    ¡°All good intentions are fraught with self-deception, boy. Better to be honest with desires of the heart than to mask them with the lies of altruism,¡± she said. ¡°You rose where he fell.¡± Turning to face her entourage, she added, ¡°prepare Niles for the auctioneers. I¡¯ve deemed his second binding forfeit¡ªhe took his chance. And he failed.¡±


    At her words, two of the elders shot forward, grimoires in hand. Blue light radiated from one of the books, only to dim when she spat. ¡°No healing! Let his crippling serve as a deterrent to others. Now, the four-star is secure. Let us end this farce.¡±


    ¡°As is written,¡± and ¡°With pleasure,¡± murmured the remaining elders. One of them snapped two bony fingers, and Callam watched as the smaller of the shields fell. The sounds of spells whistling through the air, the fanning of a thousand angry books, and the screams of Ruddites crashed in all at once. They must have muted the fight so I could bind in peace, Callam realized.


    He had no idea why.


    ¡°Scriptors, we have finally consolidated our power and are ready to end this battle. Your mission is to protect the Ruddites at all costs. Remember your duties to the people. Remember who you serve and remember why they deem you their masters,¡± barked the lead elder, her voice cutting through the noise.


    Propaganda. Callam¡¯s mouth soured, but he was unsurprised¡ªhe¡¯d never bought into the idea that Scriptors worked for the people. ¡°All stories carry two meanings,¡± the stanzas said. ¡°One that¡¯s told and one that¡¯s heard.¡± The elder only proved that true.


    ¡°Begin!¡± she barked, and as one, the elders pulled four-star grimoires from the folds of their dark robes. Then they gestured for Callam to join a group of unbound hiding behind the elevated stone chassis. He did as instructed, the teens parting to let him through with a reverence he found uncomfortable.


    Once he was safe, the elders tore down the second shield. What followed could hardly be called a battle.


    ¡°Elus nera alkia,¡± the eldest Scriptor shouted, her onyx grimoire held tight. Blackness rivaling that of the Broken coiled around her before shooting out toward the towering beast. Callam watched, his eyes wide. It wasn¡¯t her spell that surprised him, but his own mind. He¡¯d understood her perfectly, somehow having translated her words to commonspeak: ¡°Where shadow touches, I control.¡±


    How do I know this? Is this the power of Scriptors? he wondered. Everyone knew that Seekers and Scriptors shared a language only they understood, but even still, it seemed a bit much.


    Unless¡­


    He glanced down at his right hand and rubbed the Seedling scar. He hadn¡¯t been imagining it, had he? His fingers had lit up and resisted the burning from the tome. Certainly, the Scriptors had noticed¡ªthey¡¯d stayed quiet during the whole ritual, and instinct told him it wasn¡¯t out of respect. He¡¯d bet his only good shirt that the elders were opportunists to the last of them.


    So why didn''t they interfere? An unbound with a Seedling bordered on heresy.


    Whatever the reason, it can¡¯t be good, Callam decided, watching a barrage of spells collide with the Broken. I¡¯ll need to learn as much as I can about the ring. Both to protect myself and to discover how generic my gift with languages is.


    Another volley crashed into the beast, more loudly this time. They rippled across its body, then dug into its skin, feeding the pigment there until the monster swelled like an overstuffed scarecrow, full of ink instead of straw. The cyclone of books came next, diving down and cutting into the Broken with razor-sharp paper.


    ¡°Bin... d me... fre... e,¡± it howled, only to be silenced by a branch of woven spines that wrapped around its mouth-tendrils and pulled taut. Ink gushed from the wounds as the monster fought to free its voice. It whipped its massive strands back and forth, trying to send its assailants flying, but small shields intercepted each hit before they could land. When its attacks failed, the Broken withdrew and tore at its muzzle. Agony replaced the hunger on its features. More spells landed, this time piercing the inflated monster and flooding the floor in black. Soon, the creature had shrunk to the size of a man. Then the last of the pigment fell away, leaving behind a teen clothed in a cowl and shawl, with a dozen dead Ruddites at his feet.


    The Elders were quick to move the bodies and restore order. Death, while not commonplace in the port, was not unusual¡ªany visit to the shore passed the makeshift gibbots of thieves and pirates. Beast attacks were more frequent, so the populace had learned to adapt quickly to chaos. Within an hour, the Binding Ceremony resumed, the auctioneers and aristocrats finding their seats. The stands were eerily quiet.


    Callam¡¯s trip home was a blur. Three Scriptors escorted him through the portals and to the chapelward, then spoke to the Sisters there about what had happened. There was no celebration, not tonight at least¡ªhis body needed the rest. He was given a room reserved for Church guests, and while it was bare, with furnishings as austere as the Sisters themselves, it was clean and private. Having spent the last few years living under the docks, Callam was grateful.


    Left alone, he took a deep breath. Tomorrow would be a new day. His first as a Seeker. There were so many things to do: visit Siela¡¯s grave, go to the parts of town allowed only to mages, learn more about the Seedling, and pay back the few debts he owed. Not to mention prepare for the Tower.


    But first, he needed to sleep.


    Crawling into bed, Callam felt a weight leave his shoulders. Tears soon wet his cheeks, and try as he might, he could not hold them back. These were not the happy tears of a man about to marry, nor the quiet ones of a boy grieving his late sister. They were the wild, broken sobs of an orphan who¡¯d spent a lifetime dreaming without ever daring to hope his dreams might come true.


    <hr>


    A quick note, since many don''t read end cards. On patreon, I use a different font for the text in Callam''s book, as I plan on doing for printed copies of Tomebound and KU. I''m working with an artist to create a drawing of stats page in Callam''s book as well, so bear with me. I wish I could make the text prettier, but RR has limitations on which fonts we can use.

 Chapter Twenty-Three: A Pauper鈥檚 Bookbag

    ¡°All Ruddites are to receive a minimum of two daily breaks.


    Livestock need time to graze.¡±


    Of People and Produce, Third Decree of King Gael II


    <hr>


    ¡°Pass the peas, please!¡± said the little girl in a threadbare dress, glee lighting up her face.


    ¡°Me next! Me next!¡± shouted a young orphan boy in an oversized shirt, jumping up and down in his chair. Callam did as they asked, a smile on his face. He couldn¡¯t remember being this happy in a long time.


    He was seated at the head of the chapelward¡¯s table, a designation reserved for the most important visitors. Rough cotton clung to his chest and legs; that morning, he had changed from his soiled linen to the last of his clean clothes and then had spent an hour staring at his grimoire. Try as he might, he couldn¡¯t make heads or tails of his first incantation, ¡°Infer Atrea Intus.¡± Pronouncing the phrase proved easy¡ªbut the words felt heavy on his lips, as if he¡¯d coated them in a thick salve. After thirty or more attempts, all he had managed to do was parch his throat.


    The Sisters had saved him from further failures by announcing lunch.


    Now, orphans surrounded Callam, excitedly eating their fill. Offerings were pretty slim on weekdays, so word had spread quickly among the street kids. Every food Callam could imagine was plated and shared: prince peas, peeled and boiled; sailor¡¯s seagull, the port¡¯s specialty; two types of duck; Alvero greens, washed and chopped; and no less than three different fruits. Biting into one, Callam savored the sweet flesh, then grinned as two of the older orphans tussled over some bread. The Sisters were sure to give them a talking-to later, but at the moment, they seemed content to watch and glare from their places at the corners of the long table.


    ¡°Uhm, uhm! Callllluum, can you cast magic and¡­ and spells for us,¡± said that very same young girl as she piled up on peas. ¡°Pleeeease?¡±


    ¡°Alice! What have we told you about pestering adults?¡± chided one of the kinder Sisters, Nahnie. In her mid-fifties, she was dressed in chapel browns, and had always shown a warmth toward the children that the older nuns did not. Her face was lined from years of wearing a stern expression, yet Callam had never seen her use a reed.


    ¡°It¡¯s no bother,¡± Callam replied after he finished chewing. ¡°I¡¯d love to cast magic for you¡­ but I can¡¯t¡ªnot yet, at least! I¡¯ll have to go to the Tower first.¡± He didn¡¯t mention that he had less than sixteen days to figure out the spell in his grimoire otherwise¡­ well he wasn¡¯t sure what would happen, but it couldn¡¯t be good.


    ¡°Are you sc-scared?¡± asked a sniffly boy seated about four chairs down. Callam was happy to hear him speak up¡ªhe''d heard the kid was struggling to adapt to life on the streets.


    ¡°Terrified, but the scary things are the ones worth doing,¡± he replied, shooting the kid a grin. ¡°Just like panning or shining shoes, it takes confidence to get started.¡± Stealing requires that too, he thought but kept to himself. The Sisters would not take kindly to mentions of criminal activity, even if he was the one being celebrated.


    "Di... mmh..." said a quiet, small girl across the table before trailing off. "Did..." she tried again. Blond-haired and raggedy, she looked no older than five. She rocked left and right nervously¡ªCallam guessed that she was sitting on her hands.


    "It''s okay, Rosalina," he said gently, offering her a reassuring smile. When she remained silent, he nodded to the older boy to her left. "Can you ask her what she''s curious about?"


    Of all the orphans, Rosalina was the one Callam worried the most for. She¡¯d stayed mute every time he¡¯d visited before; the Sisters had explained to him earlier that day that she¡¯d only just begun to talk, mostly to Orian, who looked a lot like her late cousin.


    Orian whispered into her ear, and a breath later, she into his.


    ¡°She wants to know if ya would teach¡±¡ªthe boy took a bite of duck mid-sentence, then swallowed¡ª¡°us some of ¡®em fightin¡¯ tricks. Gotta say, I¡¯m curious too. The way you stood up during that fight... we were mad impressed.¡±


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°He will do no such thing, Orian,¡± an elderly nun spoke up after putting down her knife and adjusting her napkin. ¡°Brawling is for thieves and dock rabble.¡± Callam pitied the boy¡ªhe¡¯d been on the receiving end of that look many times before. The nuns loathed many things. Poor manners and slang were near the top of that list.


    ¡°But uh, it¡¯d really help us with our tinnin¡¯, ma''am. We could put up shows fo¡¯ sport,¡± Orian quipped back, sitting up straight. ¡°And fight off interlopers.¡±


    Callam coughed up his greens, and by the look on Nahnie¡¯s face, he hadn''t been the only one. Cheeky brat, that boy, Callam thought with a smile. Reminds me of Hans.


    The oldest nun¡ªMs. Stilwell¡ªwas not so amused. ¡°Quill is a Seeker now, wards. One of the Fated Few. He has better things to do than to tarry around here. We should be thankful he deigned to share the time he has.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d love to,¡± Callam spoke up, starting to hate being treated differently. ¡°Just some grappling I¡¯ve learned over the years. For the ¡®tinnin¡¯ of course,¡± he added with a wink. ¡°But not until tomorrow. I¡¯ve chores to do first, just like all of you.¡±


    ¡°Chores!¡± several of the kids groaned together. Laughing, Callam joined in. Truth was, they would need to learn how to protect themselves, and he did have some free time prior to heading to the Tower. It was the least he could do.


    Today, though, Callam¡¯s plans were set¡ªhe was going to pay his respects.


    All in all, the walk to the cemetery was a calm one. There had been a fair bit of clothes-grabbing from the younger orphans when he¡¯d made to leave, but some shooing from the Sisters had helped him out the door. Luckily, no one had reached for his grimoire; he would not have tolerated that. From the chapel, Callam traveled through the garden¡ªa mess of local vegetables and poorly potted plants¡ªdown two narrow streets with hanging clothes lines overhead, and past a mural of the Poet and her doves. A hundred headstones greeted him, each buried along the roots of a tall willow tree that had survived the encroachment of the city walls. They were adorned with flowers and crossed with the X that Ruddites used to denote love.


    The Sisters, for all their faults, cared for the dead.


    ¡°I made it, Sis,¡± Callam whispered, leaning over to rub some grime off Siela¡¯s grave. ¡°Bound a four-star Grimoire too, if you can believe it. Not that you doubted me for a moment. You always had so much confidence. Said we¡¯d travel to the mountains and trees, remember? We can now. We can make Mom and Dad proud. Help the orphans and¡­ and¡­¡±


    Callam¡¯s voice caught. He sat there for a long moment, lost to his feelings. Lost to the sounds of the city and the birdsong. To the ache in his heart.


    Then he stood up, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. For as long as he could remember, he¡¯d loathed graveyards. Loathed the smell of turned dirt and the memories it brought. But today? The day after his binding? Callam smiled, knowing that he¡¯d made his Siela proud.


    Before returning home, he gave her tomb another once-over. Normally her grave needed it¡ªher headstone, tucked away under a particularly thick branch, accumulated more dust than most. Not this time, though. Nestled among the roots, bathed in the noon light, and dappled by the shadows of the leaves, it looked cozy. Perfect, even.


    At peace among the trees she loved.


    ¡°Callam?¡±


    Turning, Callam found Nahnie standing quietly by the entrance to the cove, her hair tied up and a kind look about her face. ¡°Here,¡± she said, reaching for a leather bag at her side. ¡°The Scriptors left a few things for you last night. I thought it best I share them while away from jealous eyes.¡±


    He nodded¡ªthe Sisters were nothing if not practical, and they wouldn¡¯t want the orphans expecting gifts.


    ¡°First, this letter.¡± She handed him a small envelope with a gold crest.


    Callam froze. Two objects were etched into the wax seal, a tome and a seed. They know, he couldn¡¯t help but think. Was this their way of telling him they¡¯d noticed the glow on his hand? Will they try and take it from me? Can they? A thousand more questions raced through his mind. Internally, he wrestled with them. Externally, he tried to keep his expression excited and said, ¡°Excellent.¡±


    He¡¯d already planned on learning about Seedlings. Now, it was his priority for the day.


    ¡°They left you this as well,¡± Nahnie added, passing him a small purse¡ªten copper by the weight of it. ¡°Should help you buy what you need for the Tower, I imagine. And this,¡± she said, taking off the bag and holding it out, ¡°is from us. It¡¯s rare a chapelward binds, and a tome as powerful as yours is sure to burn when touched.¡±


    ¡°Truly? That¡¯s¡­ thank you!¡± Callam was genuinely touched. ¡°Poet knows I need one.¡± Immediately, he began to unwrap his grimoire from the old blanket he¡¯d been using to stifle its heat.


    ¡°Lastly, I¡¯ve two things of yours that¡­ that I feel you should have received a long time ago. One is your sister¡¯s laystone. Since she had no literate relatives, it was kept empty. Now that you¡¯re a Seeker and can write, I thought you might want to craft her a mourntale. The second is a note¡­¡± Nahnie¡¯s voice trailed off and her face softened.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°From your mother.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Four: Mysteries and Magic

    We think it normal to gaze upon the stars.


    But when we stood upon that tower,


    He only looked down.


    ~~The First Poet


    <hr>


    Callam stood in silence. He¡¯d spent a lifetime¡¯s worth of talking when he shouldn¡¯t, yet the words chose this moment not to come.


    He looked at the scroll in his hands, then up at Nahnie, feeling as if someone had knocked all the air out of him.


    ¡°... how?¡± he managed, in a very small voice.


    He had few memories of his parents. They were only concepts to him, in the same way that heroes were: ideals of bravery and kindness, devoid of the flaws that made parents human. Sometimes, if he concentrated really hard, he could conjure hazy images of warm faces smiling down at him. For a long time, he pretended to remember more¡ªhe¡¯d pestered Siela to tell him all about Mom and Dad: how they looked, what they did, even their favorite foods. Then he¡¯d acted as if those retellings were his own. He¡¯d even fashioned his blanket into a cape and had worn it throughout the day, simply because he¡¯d been told his father wore a cloak.


    Siela was sweet enough to let me believe Dad was a rogue. Callam¡¯s hands were trembling, so he did his best to steady them, not wanting to betray weakness. The Sisters were quick to correct me.


    His father was a troubadour, they¡¯d explained¡ªa mummer sharing plays he¡¯d learned by heart for coin and a night¡¯s stay. By every account, he was a talented and kind Ruddite who¡¯d worked off his indenturement as a theater hand. Years later, he¡¯d met Callam¡¯s mother and fallen in love. Together, they¡¯d passed away from the Blight, a decade after that.


    But the Blight didn¡¯t infect the literate. So why was he holding a scroll titled, ¡°Dearest Siela & Callam¡±?


    Unraveling it, he read.


    ¡®Little ones,


    I¡¯m so sorry I cannot hold you tonight. Remember those bedtime stories I told you of the Far-away? Of she who flies to where the stars reside? Father has been taken by her plight, and I fear that I am next¡ªmy coughs worsen by the day.


    I know you are not prepared. No child can be.


    There is no lesson we can teach you that explains the hurt that will come. Forgive us for that, when you are old enough to understand.


    Siela, I¡¯ve no dowry to leave you. We tried to save, but with your father¡¯s medication¡­ instead, I have something for you my mother said when I wed:


    ¡®Memory may be the ink of time, but it is the heart that decides what we do with what we remember.¡¯


    I know it has been hard having a little brother, watching him get toys that once belonged to you. Nonetheless, you must learn to care for him¡ªyou¡¯re his older sister and the only family he¡¯s left.


    So, if you are reading this, I hope you two are getting along. I hope you love him as we love you. I haven¡¯t said it enough, but know that I¡¯m incredibly proud to be your mother.


    Callam, my sweet little prince. You may not remember me, but I hope you do. I hope you hear my voice in the wind. I hope you remember the lullabies and the stanzas we sung to you. I hope you grow up rebellious and smart like your sister. Kind and strong like your dad.


    You have his nose, you know. He says you have my eyes.


    I wish we could protect you from this world; it is not kind to those with big hearts. Promise me it won¡¯t break you. Promise me.


    With all my love and life,


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Mira.¡¯


    Callam stared at the page for a long while. Around him, the world felt eerily quiet, although he was not alone. The buildings, once cozy and inviting, now appeared crooked and in disrepair. Whatever novelty there¡¯d been in reading a scroll was drowned out by his restless need to both sit down and pace. He fidgeted between the two actions, overwhelmed by an incredible longing for family. There was love in that yearning. Grief too, for what his childhood could have been. And a deep numbness¡ªnumbness built over summers spent watching families together, seeing parents and children hand-in-hand. Instinctively, he crumpled the note, before realizing what he¡¯d done and desperately smoothing it out.


    Ink smeared his hands. Tears spotted the paper, some fresh, others old and dried from where his mother had cried.


    None of this made any sense to him. I¡¯ve always gotten along with Siela, he thought, walking back and forth. That at least he could explain. Children fought. More importantly, his parents had been Ruddites, so how had they left him a note? Paying a scribe would be out of budget for most.


    Callam took a breath and tried to center himself. Tried to remember how happy he had felt that morning. Focused on all the smells and sounds around him.


    Why didn¡¯t they tell me?


    Whirling on Nahnie, he blurted out. ¡°Why am I only learn¡ª!?¡± then cut himself off when he realized how he sounded. Closing his eyes against a wave of vertigo, he said, ¡°Sorry¡ªI¡­¡±


    ¡°I understand your confusion, Callam. But remember, ink tells the story,¡± she responded, her eyes full of compassion. ¡°Not us.¡±


    Ink tells the story? The Sisters were ever cryptic, and at that moment Callam wanted none of it.  ¡°What does that mea¡ª¡±


    ¡°When we found Siela knocking on our door fourteen years ago, she was inconsolable. For days, all she would do was rock back and forth, saying that your parents died of the plight, and clasp that note to her chest. At first, we assumed she didn¡¯t know how to say blight. It''s common enough with the little ones, as you know.¡±


    Callam did. He¡¯d seen plenty of children like that, their parents taken from them before they were old enough to pronounce big words.


    ¡°Eventually, she warmed up to us. She and I used to sit for hours, mending clothes and whispering like old wives until she became comfortable enough to share with me some of the stories your parents used to sing. One in particular stood out¡ªthe one in that letter.¡±


    Nahnie paused to look up, her eyes shifting to the terracotta tiles of the surrounding buildings. Then she began down the cobbled path to the city markets, expression troubled. Callam followed quietly behind her, unwilling to be the first to speak.


    Inside of his right pocket, though, he rubbed at the Seedling¡¯s scar on his finger, impatient. Angry, even.


    ¡°What did your Sister tell you of the Far-away?¡± Nahnie asked before long. They were standing at the crossing between Mercer and Cobbler¡¯s lane, and she¡¯d just finished nodding her ¡®hellos¡¯ to a group of work-bound Ruddites, all of whom she¡¯d seemed to recognize.


    Callam frowned. ¡°Only what every child knows. It is where the Winged One takes sinners and heretics. The lucky go after they pass, the less fortunate¡­ well, you¡¯ve heard the missives. They get picked up from our walls, dragged out in daylight.¡±


    ¡°That is one telling, yes.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying there is another?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Nahnie replied, weariness seeping into her tone. She came to a stop above the first of several narrow staircases overlooking a bustling market, and he held his breath. The Sisters rarely spoke of the past, especially not to their wards.


    Seconds later, she started down the steps, so he rushed to offer her an arm. These steps were notoriously slippery, and while Nahnie wasn¡¯t elderly, caring for the young had a way of wearing a body out.


    ¡°What I tell you today, it''s best you don¡¯t repeat. We Sisters are honor bound, but nothing ties your lips.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Heaven¡¯s darkness is said to be Far-away. To be the place the Winged One and her beasts take their victims. But before all that, before the Lighthouse was lit, the Far-away was home to the Poet. The leader of our order.¡°


    Callam stopped walking, the movement so abrupt it jolted both of them. This was heresy. More heretical than Ruddites trying to write, or Rebelrousers fighting for Ruddite freedom. Were these Sisters witches, in consort with¡ª


    ¡°At peace, Callam,¡± Nahnie said, then laughed. ¡°Would I tell you some grand secret in public? You should know all this already.¡±


    What? ¡°But you preach that¡ª¡±


    ¡°Poet¡¯s hand, Callam, I know what we preach. And now I know how little you¡¯ve paid attention during every sermon. Yes, the Far-away is the realm of the Winged One. But before that, it was home to the Poet, and it is her absence that let darkness fall. That part is no secret, and not what you must keep quiet,¡± she said, burying a hand into her robe and pulling at a grimoire. ¡°This, however, is.¡±


    A moment later, she whispered, ¡°Sapsilen,¡± and he knew her next words were for his ears only.


    ¡°The First Poet grew up far away from the immunities earned by the Fated Few¡ªimmunity to the Blight. When she bound, she brought knowledge to this side of the world. Yet, she also shared her susceptibility with her creed. She could fall sick, and so too can anyone sharing in her gift. We call it the ''Archive''s plight.''¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Five: Of Body and Mind

    ¡°At coronation I told you, ¡®a King rules with fear.¡¯


    I see now, Son, how my words led you astray.


    Let me set the record straight.


    ¡®A King rules with fear for his borders,


    For sickness within and war without,


    He rules with fear for his loved ones,


    Knowing his duties will draw him from his home,


    And royal politics keep him to his throne.


    A King rules with fear for his people,


    That they might go hungry, or be oppressed,


    No, Son. A King does not just rule with fear, alone.¡¯ ¡±


    ~~General Stilwell, on the eve of the execution of the first Scriptor King


    <hr>


    ¡°The Archives'' plight? If what you are saying is true, then¡­¡±


    Letting go of Nahnie, Callam walked to the edge of the switchback staircases. He watched numbly as the shopkeeps below swept their stoops, stocked their wares, and peddled their goods, all in preparation for the post-Binding-Day celebrations.


    Was Mom really an Archive? Callam¡¯s mind reeled at the implications¡ªboth that he might be related to someone with magical abilities, and that some Scriptors could contract a variation of the blight. Resistance to the disease had always been touted as proof of the divine providence of the Fated Few. Now that he knew otherwise, it raised the question: what else had he been blindly led to believe?


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Nahnie said gently. ¡°We theorized that your mother bound a book connected to the First Poet¡¯s line. Your sister agreed with us when we let her in on our suspicions.¡±


    ¡°Siela knew?¡±


    ¡°I imagine she figured most of it out on her own. She retained her childhood memories of your parents, and was always far more clever than her years.¡±


    She certainly was. Callam wasn¡¯t surprised Siela hadn¡¯t told him. She had been many things¡ªthoughtful, loving, supportive¡ªbut more than anything, she¡¯d been protective. Street kids were not kind to the offspring of Scriptors, so she¡¯d been smart to keep their mother¡¯s secret.


    It still stung, though. Silence stretched between him and Nahnie, and he was grateful for it, needing the time to sort through his thoughts. After a while, he returned to her side and again offered her an arm. Together, they continued down the terrace to the market.


    "...so, if Mother was an Archive, why were we left with nothing? And why all the secrecy?" Callam asked, voicing the questions burning inside him. He could accept that his family had a magic bloodline¡ªhis sister had scored a seven on the innate talent score, and he¡¯d somehow bonded a four-star grimoire¡ªbut mages were well paid, and he had been told repeatedly that the Quills hadn¡¯t a copper to their name.


    ¡°Some Archives are wealthy, this is true. But just as many are destitute. From what I¡¯ve gathered, the life of an Archive is¡­ complicated,¡± Nahnie replied. ¡°Only those with a talent for truth telling have high earning potential. The rest don¡¯t possess magic, at least in a traditional sense, so while they can read and write, they struggle to find long-term employment.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard the rates you charge for scribing. It¡¯s more than enough to keep you fed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because we Sisters do just that: write, not record. The three-star grimoires of Archives transcribe every moment of their lives. They can¡¯t forget what they see or hear¡ªthe written accounts in their books prevail. Few businesses want their secrets so traceable, or their flaws so public,¡± Nahnie explained as they approached the last of the staircases. ¡°As for why it''s all kept secret, well, that should be obvious: the Prophet protects his gifted from the blight. Imagine what would happen if word spread that His doctrine had nuance.¡±


    ¡°Chaos,¡± Callam said, almost to himself. He¡¯d seen what happened when street gangs thought their leadership was weak.


    Nahnie nodded. ¡°It is order, above all, that prevents panic. Humanity claims mastery over beasts, but even a farm boy can tell you that paws and feet are more similar than we think. Now¡­¡± she trailed off as she straightened her brown robes. ¡°It''s best we speak of other things. Help me down these last few steps, if you¡¯d please.¡±


    Callam did as requested. He had to admit that Nahnie¡¯s words had a ring of truth¡ªthe local pennypawners would never hire someone who couldn¡¯t lie, and they only fenced goods. Wealthier merchants and nobles? They might kill to keep their secrets private, so they certainly wouldn¡¯t have employed his mother. Similarly, he could understand why the Church might suppress information about the Archive¡¯s plight.


    His only remaining question was: If Nahnie¡¯s right, what happened to Mom¡¯s book?


    Yet there was no time for him to stew on that now. Within moments of them leaving the staircase, he felt the weight of a dozen or more eyes fall on him.


    Seeing his expression, Nahnie laughed and said, ¡°Well, this should be an experience for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been to the market.¡± Even pretended to be a Writ at one yesterday.


    ¡°Not as a Seeker, you haven¡¯t. Everyone assumes you¡¯ve money now.¡±


    ~~


    In the end, Nahnie was right: the markets were nothing like the food stalls the day before. Where those shopkeepers had also vied for Callam¡¯s business, they¡¯d generally been respectful, believing him to be a noble.


    It seemed Seekers were not given such breadth. Instead, they were treated as free copper. Callam and Nahnie had traveled less than ten feet toward the thirty or so rows of wooden booths, each of which were covered by a thin ornamental drape instead of a ceiling, when they were accosted for the first time.


    ¡°World-famous clouts and cabbage,¡± shouted one short man into Callam¡¯s face as he wheeled around a barrel full of what Callam knew to be some of the toughest greens on sale. He¡¯d had the misfortune of stealing a few once, only to find that they had been painted for color and turned a watery white when boiled. Not even his sister had dared to try one.


    ¡°Papers, Pens, and Miscellaneous,¡± bellowed another man on Callam¡¯s right, his head sticking out from under a crooked sign. An owl was painted on the plaque, and the whole thing sagged as if weighed down by the bird.


    Callam would have walked on by, a little put off by the aggressive shout, but Nahnie grabbed his elbow.


    ¡°Best we stop here, Callam. All Seekers are expected to practice their spellworks by hand, so you¡¯ll need to stock up on stationery,¡± she said. Seconds later, she separated the twin drapes leading into the dimly lit store.


    Whatever misgivings Callam had were suddenly dispelled. The thief within him wanted to steal everything.


    Hundreds of inkwells, pamphlets, plants, and other curiosities were stacked upon each other in ways that defied all logic. In one corner alone he spotted a small, potted tree balancing upon four books, a kettle, and a pile of loose playing cards. On top of its branches were perched three cylinders, each sucking pigment from its leaves. Callam watched in wonder as the fresh ink was pulled through a series of tubes, eventually condensing in a large vial at the shopkeep¡¯s desk.


    The shopkeep, for his part, seemed completely uninterested in the process¡ªor in anything else, really. His eyes had been fixed on a book the entire time they¡¯d been in his store. For a moment, Callam was confused by the man¡¯s change in demeanor. Then he understood: despite the remarkable similarities between the two, this vendor was not the same man as the one shouting to buyers through the store¡¯s window.


    Indeed, it seemed the store was owned by twins.


    ¡°Welcome, fine patrons of Brothers Ink. What can I do for you, Sister?¡± asked the man who had beckoned them in. Tall, with striking white hair and a half-smile that managed to be both worldly and mischievous, he appeared to be as eclectic as his shop. His short-sleeved shirt was covered in stains, yet neatly tucked in, and he matched his sailor¡¯s hat with military boots. Most surprisingly of all, he was a Ruddite, as denoted by the indenturement brand on his forearm. Whatever gifts the gods had showered on this man¡¯s twin had evidently overlooked him.


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    ¡°The boy will need a ream of paper, two inkwells for good measure, and a set of quills please. Throw in a seeing mirror, for when he¡¯s forced to master spells in reverse.¡±


    ¡°It will be done, Sister. May I suggest a pack of sanctum vials as well? I¡¯m told they¡¯re quite useful for purifying the Tower¡¯s mana.¡±


    ¡°No need. I expect Quill¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sorry!¡± Hearing his name, Callam jumped back from where he¡¯d been inspecting a bowl containing a floating replica of a cloud ship. Something about the way the wind trapped in the glass caught on the ship¡¯s sails captivated his mind. He immediately withdrew his hands and held them high¡ªhe wouldn¡¯t lose a finger over this.


    ¡°I was explaining that the dense mana of the Tower¡¯s higher floors is unlikely to pose much of a challenge to you, given your grimoire¡¯s star-level.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± That¡¯s right, I¡¯m allowed here, he reminded himself, and took a deep breath. Then he walked toward the desk, a bit sheepishly. For years, areas like these had been strictly off-limits. At least during the day.


    ¡°Quill, aye?¡± the Ruddite said with a smile. ¡°If that name hasn¡¯t been the talk of the town. They¡¯re saying you fought off a Broken before you even bound, and your first spell killed it. Must be quite a book you found.¡±


    ¡°Every story¡¯s bigger in its telling,¡± Callam said, his ears a fine shade of red. It was an awkward feeling¡ªbeing lauded after years of being ignored. He¡¯d learned to stand tall in those shadows. Now, the chapel was treating him as their pride and joy, and he wasn¡¯t certain how to react.


    ¡°True. A good wishtale is like rolled snow. Once it starts, it is hard to slow,¡± the Ruddite brother said, eyes sparkling. Callam would have to take the man¡¯s word on that¡ªorphans had plenty of experience stopping snow. Mostly with their heads, although the older unbound weren¡¯t too picky about their targets.


    ¡°Was the Broken actually the size of a house?¡± asked a quiet and firm voice. It wasn¡¯t until a moment later that Callam realized the second twin had spoken; the man¡¯s lips barely seemed to move, and his eyes still hadn¡¯t left the thick book he was reading. ¡°We were too busy trading with the Solstice Isles to make the ceremony.¡±


    ¡°Leave him be,¡± Nahnie said, resting her hands on the counter. ¡°A Scriptor should know better than to pry.¡±


    ¡°I ask that which is worth knowing, Sister,¡± the man said sharply. With a snap, he closed the hardcover he was reading and then stood up. While adjusting his robes, he added stiffly, ¡°The Manarji sing of Inkbreath that span from sea to mountain, creatures said to paint scenes so vivid they rival the magics of our greatest Scriptors¡ªscenes powerful enough to make the Winged One run in fear. Yet our Broken look¡­¡±


    Callam did not need to read minds to know why the man had cut his sentence short. The expression on Nahnie¡¯s brow could have made a stone sweat.


    ¡°The Prophet has a special place for heretics. It is not so Far Away for you, it seems.¡±


    As a thief, Callam had tiptoed through rooms so quiet he could have heard a pin drop. In the wake of Nahnie¡¯s rebuke, such a sound would have been thunderous. Truly, there is no silence greater than that of a sinner put to shame. Callam only wished he could escape through the red curtain draping the shop¡¯s back door. The Scriptor twin must have had the same idea, as he whispered an apology, gave a nervous bow, and made himself scarce. At that moment, Nahnie seemed¡­ less than forgiving.


    ¡°... is there anything else I can help you both with?¡± the Ruddite finally asked to break the tension. ¡°We¡¯ve a set of measuring scales, if you¡¯d like. For you, we¡¯ll accept both Port Standard and copper.¡±


    That brought Callam up short. How exactly was he to pay for all this? He¡¯d received a purse earlier, but unless his count was off¡ªand it wasn¡¯t, he had years of experience as a pickpocket¡ªthe bag would be several coins short. Worried, he pulled it out and discreetly tried to get it open.


    ¡°Do you have a credit system for the recently bound?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Oh, they¡¯ll credit you, alright, but not with sense.¡± Nahnie said stiffly. ¡°He¡¯s offering to sell you scales, when you can buy them discounted at the Tower,¡± she mumbled, all her earlier joviality gone. By the frustration in her tone, it was clear she wanted to leave the store as soon as possible.


    ¡°We do take Tower credit, yes, with a ten-percent interest¡ªpass me your Tower signet, and I¡¯ll mark it against my spellwork.¡±


    ¡°Just take mine,¡± Nahnie said, and threw a small rock with a glowing green emblem onto the counter. ¡°The Sisters and I agreed to get you something else to celebrate your binding. Consider this that gift.¡±


    Callam watched the stone closely¡ªhe¡¯d witnessed the process before, so he was not surprised when the rock bounced off the hardwood desk, then spiraled upwards and floated a foot in the air. He¡¯d just never paid much attention, since it had never pertained to him. After all, Tower signets were spellworks that required a mana signature, meaning they could only be used by mages.


    Not that the places I frequent accept credit, anyways. Pennypawners preferred hard copper¡ªas far as Callam understood, every spellworked transaction went on the Tower¡¯s global ledger, making tax evasion difficult.


    The Ruddite on the other side of the counter had no such qualms taking credit. He palmed the signet over to a flat plate, where it spun merrily in the air, green light cascading onto the porcelain. Each item was placed underneath it, and a second later the plate flashed orange. Slightly anticlimactic, as far as all things magic went. If I only knew how it actually worked. It would be extremely convenient to be able to so easily identify unknown items. The number of times he¡¯d been forced to trust a pawner¡¯s price on an artifact¡­


    Callam scrunched his eyebrows. Seekers didn¡¯t think like thieves. Neither should he.


    ¡°The Tower should have your receipt,¡± the man said to Nahnie, while handing Callam his items, which he stowed away into a small compartment on the outside of his new tomebag. A small card lay on top of the pile, printed with the words: ¡°Choose Brothers Ink for all your paper needs.¡±


    Sunshine nearly blinded Callam as he and Nahnie made their way back to the market. The Sun had peaked an hour ago, and now it broke through the patchwork rooftops on the poor side of the city. Locals packed the thin aisles between the vendors, having come out late on the day of rest.


    ¡°Well, Callam, the Chapel has me chore-bound,¡± Nahnie said, some of her liveliness returning with the light. She gave him a look up and down, then frowned. ¡°You¡¯ll be off to the tailor next, I imagine. Although, you¡¯d best check that letter I handed you earlier first.¡±


    And with that, Nahnie was off, leaving Callam to explore the city alone. She was right: he both needed to visit the tailor and to read the letter left to him by the Elders. It had gnawed at the back of his mind all day, tainting every interaction and slowly building a pit in his stomach.


    What did the Elders know of his Seedling?


    Pulling both the envelope and his money-pouch out from his pocket, Callam followed his nose. Who said he couldn¡¯t eat and read?


    ¡°Three links please, and another two to go,¡± Callam told the Ruddite woman working the pan, then tossed her a full copper. ¡°Change to the tin,¡± he added, nodding to the little saucer on the lip of her stall.


    He¡¯d never been able to afford that before.


    ¡°Drink of lemonsap to go with it? Drawn fresh this morning,¡± the thin lady asked, stopping to wipe her brow. Those spellworked fires burned hot, and Port Cardica summer¡¯s already ran warm.


    ¡°Chef knows best.¡± he smiled, and accepted the three hot sausages she placed on his plate, as well as the drink. Onions and peppers followed, both sweated on the stove and sweetened with honey. A dollop of spice and a side of fried potato finished the dish. Callam knew this recipe by heart. It was a favorite of the orphans¡ªa cheap treat occasionally snuck to them by some of the chapel¡¯s kinder visitors.


    He relished it.


    Two more bites, one more deep breath, and he felt as ready as he¡¯d ever be. Flipping the envelope over, he noted again the tome and seed on the seal, then began to pry the letter open with shaking fingers. Whatever the Scriptors knew of his ring lay in these pages.


    What if they¡¯ve decided to take it from me? Will they cut off my finger? Callam¡¯s stomach dropped and he regretted eating first.


    At his touch, the red wax evaporated. Seams split free across the letter¡¯s sides, paper unfurled in front of Callam¡¯s eyes, and suddenly the envelope was no more.


    In its place lay a sheet of parchment that read:


    Congratulations are in Order


    Seeker Callam Quill,


    Star-level four,


    That which is written is foretold and forbidden. Only those who are fated may join the ranks of His few. Magic is His gift to us, and we His gift to the people. May the Ruddites cheer your victories, may they mourn your losses, and may they remember that great men stand tallest on the shoulders of the fallen.


    It is our honor to congratulate you. Welcome to our ranks. Report to the ground floor of the Tower on the third of Solitude, one week from this day.


    Truly,


    Scriptor Kyros


    P.S Unregistered Seedlings carry a capital offense. Do see to it that you visit the Tower¡¯s Roots within your first week for the proper paperwork.


    What?!


    Callam read the letter once more, the hairs on his neck raised. There had to be a mistake; what little Callam knew about Seedlings suggested they were the makings of legend, challenges planted in parchment and spread throughout the continent for the Fated Few to discover. To think that he¡¯d solved one as an unbound, and that it had helped him bind¡­ it went against the Prophet¡¯s very teachings.


    Yet this scroll adresses my ring as a clerical error? Nothing about that sat right with him. He¡¯d expected to face punishment at the very least. The Sisters alone would have had him sent to the stocks if they¡¯d found out. So why weren¡¯t the Elders doing the same?


    Callam shuddered. He trusted his instincts; his years on the streets taught him that a guard manned every unlocked door. Whatever he did next, he could not report his Seedling to the Roots while he was still in the dark. That gave him at most a few days for research once he got to the Tower. He¡¯d have to learn as much as he could in that time frame.


    Resolute, Callam plopped the last of his sausages into his mouth, downed the lemonsnap, and prepared to leave. He tucked the packaged meat into a corner of his bag and secured the scroll over it. In the process, his grimoire caught his eye and he allowed himself a smile.


    Despite everything, he¡¯d really done it¡ªhe¡¯d become a Seeker.


    Almost as an afterthought, Callam ordered another few links. Where he was headed tonight, food curried as much favor as coin.

 Chapter Twenty-Six: Quiet Before The Storm

    I, for one, imagine that we envy them.


    Silent creatures with sorcery hitherto unknown?


    Who are they to keep their gifts a secret?


    We humans have a habit of stripping mysteries bare,


    And what we cannot understand, we fear.


    And what we fear, we domesticate.


    ~~On the Nature of Djinn, Before the First Binding


    <hr>


    The needlework took far longer and was far more expensive than Callam had hoped. He tried to haggle at one point, but his efforts proved fruitless; he had never dreamed of owning highborn clothes before, so he knew little of their price. Eventually, he resigned himself to his fate, sitting sullenly as the seamstress poked, prodded, and stabbed him twice with a small needle, then told him that ¡®none of it would do!¡¯ and that the process would have to ¡®begin anew.¡¯ By the time she finally accepted his money¡ªseven coppers and the full two rymers he had been given¡ªit was well past three and easing into four.


    Callam¡¯s least favorite time to be midtown.


    In the hustle and bustle of the midday market, it was easy for him to forget the conditions that led to Port Cardica¡¯s prosperity¡ªor for him to remember the disparities that drove its people to unrest. Come late afternoon, those inequities became impossible to ignore. Callam stepped out of Gilded Robes and Garments to promises of an early-morning delivery, and found himself caught among a throng of onlookers cheering a city guard. The man was built like a naval galleon¡ªbroad-shouldered and bearded, with a stomach so large it parted the crowds.


    He dragged a young girl behind him by her hair, completely indifferent to her begs and whimpers.


    Dozens followed, eager to see if she was destined for the stocks or the gallows. Callam looked on, his fists clenched. He hated how meted justice was base entertainment for the masses. Surely one of her fellow thieves would help her escape, or perhaps an onlooker would step in and request leniency. The girl was missing a finger, after all, marking this as her second offense¡ªat best, she¡¯d lose her hand.


    All Callam heard were laughs and the occasional taunt of ¡°Thief!¡± Then came the sound of his voice, as he shouted out ¡°I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    "Ruddites, Guards, let¡¯s not sour this afternoon with such crass cruelties," a blue-eyed man to Callam¡¯s left interrupted. Dust spread from where the Scriptor stood, as if his sudden appearance among the crowds had brought about the breeze. The salty, crisp smell of ocean brine came next, heralded by awnings that rustled like sails in the wind.


    ¡°Scripter Raele,¡± grunted the guard, looking over his shoulder and frowning. ¡°This brat nicked flour and salt. Port¡¯s crawling with rats like her. Will you make all their victims whole?¡±


    Raele? Why¡¯s that name familiar?


    ¡°No,¡± the man said, walking forward. ¡°But the citywatch should know the futility of culling rodents. Kill one, and five more appear, each angrier and hungrier than the last. Feed them instead. Show them mercy, teach them skills, and you will make fine Ruddites of them yet.¡±


    Where the mage¡¯s speech might have moved the onlookers, it did nothing to sway the guard¡ªthe man appeared dead set on seeing the girl punished. He violently tugged at the girl''s locks, only to slowly look down in confusion.


    Callam followed the sentry¡¯s eyes, then felt his own go wide.


    The rough man was holding nothing but hair. Twin pigtails were sheared short and the little girl was nowhere to be seen. In response, the man yelled in outrage, a few Ruddites laughed, and Callam whipped his head around¡ªhe spotted the young thief a second later, disappearing into the throng. Raele, for his part, didn¡¯t look surprised. The Scriptor flashed the crowd a wide smile, then suddenly went stoic.


    ¡°Well, it seems the rumors are true: we are destined for ruin. For a Port¡¯s guards to be outsmarted by children, and an urchin at that? Perhaps you¡¯re the ones in need of lessons.¡±


    Turning to the crowd, the sentry spat, ¡°Which of you helped her!¡± His words fell on deaf ears. The people had gotten what they craved¡ªa show at someone¡¯s expense. That a street kid had escaped in the process mattered little to them.


    A well-executed misdirection. Callam thought, grinning. Part of him still couldn¡¯t believe he¡¯d seen a Scriptor help a street kid. Yet, there were times to pry and times to leave things be. This was the latter, and he was thrilled he hadn¡¯t been forced to use his signet to cover the girl¡¯s bounty. He knew little about the Tower¡¯s credit system, but plenty about pennylenders and their collecting methods.


    Best I avoid debt when possible.


    Slinging his book bag over his shoulder, Callam made for his next destination: the novelry. It wasn¡¯t the longest walk, but it served as another stark reminder of the life he¡¯d escaped. He cut through the shadowed alleys of lower Vaile, nearly slipping on the cobblestones that paved the narrow pathways between the slanted buildings. Puddles of rainwater wet his sandaled feet, and his shoes were soaked by the time he reached the barred windows marking inner Solitude, the halfway point. A labyrinth of backstreets, the area was safe only for Scriptors and holy women. Callam grimaced as he passed a handful of Ruddite ladies working the streets. Lower-caste men were sent to the mines. Women, well¡­


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    At least miners were allowed proper clothes.


    Callam looked away, his stomach in a knot. I¡¯ll change those customs, he promised himself. One day. Siela had never worked those shifts, yet he knew she would have, had it meant keeping a roof over his head.


    The final stretch to oceanside¡ªthe wealthy part of the port¡ªrequired some legwork. So, Callam tossed his bag behind him, climbed the steep stone fence that hugged a tenement for support, then jumped down onto a stack of wooden crates. From there, he crossed a handful of thin rotting planks that passed for roofs in the slums and dropped to the ground.


    Docks End, his home. It was ironic how the worst part of the city bordered one of the best. Almost as if the aristocrats like looking down on us. Callam would have to stop by Pier Seven come nightfall, but for now he ducked under one of the rickety docks, rolled up his pants, and waded the five-minute stretch to Oceanside¡¯s soft sands.


    He didn¡¯t have to take this route anymore. But it was quicker, and old habits die hard.


    At least I won¡¯t have to sneak in this time he thought. The mercantile gate loomed just ahead; in the past, he¡¯d been forced to scale around it. Not today¡ªalthough he still fidgeted a bit as he approached. Years spent evading guards left him feeling out of place.


    ¡°Ho there!¡± shouted the sentry. ¡°What is written?¡±


    ¡°Is foretold and forbidden,¡± Callam responded, in the formal vernacular. One glance at the man confirmed he was a stickler for processes. Not a hair on his head or beard was misplaced, and even his eyebrows seemed combed.


    ¡°Name and star level?¡± Either could get Callam in.


    ¡°Quill, fourth tier.¡±


    The man¡¯s reaction was instantaneous. Where a moment before he¡¯d been polite yet standoffish, now his posture was subdued.


    ¡°I¡­ I was unaware, sir. Not to trouble you, but I¡¯m charged to check every spellbook¡­¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Callam said, and pulled out his grimoire. It had only been a day, but he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d ever get comfortable with being spoken to like nobility.


    A quick glance at the cover later, and the sentry rolled up the gate to let him in. There was no forging star levels, as far as Callam knew¡ªthe books wouldn¡¯t allow for alterations or etchings post-binding.


    Music met Callam¡ªa gentle harmony that caressed him with soft, lyrical notes. This was not the rowdy din of the sailors¡¯ shanties sung throughout the port. No, this was the sound of practiced hands, trained to make a listener¡¯s heart soar. The flutes trilled ever higher with each step he took up the winding hill, and, when he stopped to catch his breath, the harps chimed a melody that all but felt like an autumn breeze.


    Of course, if anyone had asked, he¡¯d have sworn his preference for drunken ballads and tavern tunes. Yet even he couldn¡¯t help but hum along as he made his way to the bookstore.


    Poet¡¯s hand. Why is everything in Oceanside so damn nice?


    Several placards led Callam¡¯s way. He ignored most of them; he¡¯d visited before, always in the dead of night, his breath fogging the glass with the other orphans brave enough to risk this side of town. Despite their eagerness, they¡¯d never dared to break in. Books were sacrosanct, and they¡¯d lose more than a hand if caught.


    Still, they¡¯d dreamed.


    Callam only drew a few strange glances as he walked. The worst scrutiny came from a group of Seekers sharing in his destination. They snickered at his outfit until they realized they were all headed in the same direction. Then, it was all smiles. Callam grinned widest of all¡ªthe Seekers¡¯ carried at least a dozen heavy purses among them, none particularly well hidden.


    If one happened to go missing¡­ Callam shook his head. He wouldn¡¯t risk everything now for a few coins¡ªespecially when he had so little to gain. Better I focus on finding the bookstore and learning all I can about magic, Seedlings, and Archives.


    ¡°Lore & Leaf¡¯s Fine Leather Manuscripts,¡± read the brick storefront when he finally arrived. Shaded by a large Aurelian Oak and flanked by two dimmed streetlamps, the novelery was one of many shops vending in Oceanside¡¯s most upscale pavilion. Teens gathered around the bookshop¡¯s arched red door, chatting and enjoying sweets from a neighboring chocolatier.


    Callam took a moment before entering, suddenly self-conscious of his sweat-soaked shirt. Only when he was certain he was dry did he walk in.


    ¡°By the prophet¡­¡±


    No matter how many times he saw them, books never lost their allure. And here, they were everywhere. Rounded shelves were stacked high with volumes, while a dozen little nooks were filled with patrons, each nose-deep in their novels. Paperfowl hopped here and there, cooing, occasionally chased by cat-like critters with ink-splotch markings.


    ¡°...in lands of the Far Away, the¡­¡± shared one storyteller in a far corner, his feet surrounded by nobleborn children.


    ¡°Novels and maps on the ground floor, scholarly ventures upstairs,¡± said the middle-aged doorwoman, looking up from where she was scribbling at her desk. ¡°We''ll need to confirm your literacy, of course¡­ unless you¡¯re with one of our gold-pin members?¡±


    ¡°Here for myself,¡± Callam replied absentmindedly, fetching his tome from his bag.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± she said, after peeking at his grimoire. ¡°As a four star, your first four visits are on us. After that, you¡¯ll have to apply for membership. Now, what can we help you with today? Just name the volumes you seek, and our fetchers will bring them to you.¡±


    Convenient. ¡°How many can I borrow at once?¡± Callam asked. ¡°Err, I mean peruse?¡± He scratched his head.


    ¡°As many as you¡¯d like, long as they don¡¯t leave with you. You can¡¯t borrow them¡ªthis is no library. But if you¡¯d like to sit down and read them for a few minutes before purchase¡­ well, no one¡¯s the wiser,¡± the doorlady said with a smile.


    ¡°Got it, I¡¯ve a good idea of what I¡¯m after.¡±


    ¡°Just wait here for a minute, then. Someone will be with you shortly.¡± With a ding, the lady rang a small bell on her desk.


    Less than thirty seconds later, a cheerful-looking young man with light brown hair and a toothy smile appeared. He had tucked his own tome inside a satchel hung across his chest and was carrying a pile of books.


    ¡°Hill, be a dear and help this boy out, would you?¡±


    ¡°Consider it done,¡± the mage replied with a wink. Looking Callam up and down, he added, ¡°First time? Follow me to where words and magic meet.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Paupers Magic

    When you¡¯ve written those histories,


    You know the weight of them,


    You know war is rarely so pretty,


    As the page makes her out to be,


    You know every tale of her holds many lies,


    And by necessity, every lie bears as many truths.


    ~~On the Nature of War, 500 PB


    <hr>


    Apparently, magic and words met on a cramped, wooden table in Lore and Leaf¡¯s farthest corner, right between a pair of tall reading lamps. Eight books teetered atop one edge of the desk, kept in place by two smaller stacks of loose papers. Maps of all shapes and sizes were strewn across the wood, their pages bent and splayed in awkward angles. A cup of coffee still steamed from a recent pour.


    ¡°Sorry for the mess,¡± Hill said apologetically, sitting down in a leather armchair behind the desk. ¡°So what can I help you with? Are you hoping to become a member? Or are you in the market for a novel? Let me guess. Mystery? Murder? Or does our young Seeker have a penchant for romance, perhaps?¡±


    Callam sputtered, trying to stifle a laugh. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine on that, than¡ª¡±


    ¡°Really, because we¡¯ve a new title called ¡®An Eye for an Eye.¡¯ ¡± Hill cut in, his smile wide. ¡°A striking tale of a young lady who loses herself in a piercing blue gaze, nearly going blind with lust. Then one of her suitors starts a war for revenge. Highly recommended for the love-struck man.¡±


    This time Callam nearly snorted. ¡°You know, I think I¡¯ll stick to more actionable topics. I¡¯ve¡­ uh, some specific requests.¡±


    ¡°Do tell. I¡¯ll seek them out readily.¡± Hill¡¯s eyes flashed with a wicked gleam.


    ¡°I¡¯m hoping for something on early magic, and on Seedlings¡ªmore than wishtales, if you can,¡± Callam said, his heart speeding up. No one should mind his curiosity, yet he was used to having all his intentions questioned. ¡°I¡¯ll take anything you¡¯ve got on Archives as well.¡±


    "Ahh..." Hill sighed, his disappointment palpable as he pushed back from his desk and stood. "Aiming to be one of the greats, I see. Well, it''s good to get ahead on your education. I have some elementary works on magic translations here, if you''re interested," he offered, nodding towards a stack of dusty books on the counter. "But if it''s anything on Seedlings and Archives you''re after, those would be in the stacks. Make yourself at home¡ªI''ll go check for you."


    With that, the young man left. Make myself at home? How? There were dozens of people browsing the bookstore and talking, yet there wasn''t another empty seat in sight.


    Shrugging, Callam seized one of the thick books and made for Hill¡¯s chair¡ªhe wasn¡¯t about to wait for a reading hole to free up, and it sure looked comfortable. ¡°Infer Atrea Intus,¡± he whispered as he plopped down. Hopefully, this volume would help him decipher the first spell in his grimoire, or at least explain to him why he¡¯d understood the elder¡¯s hex during the fight with the Broken the night before.


    Can all Seekers do that? Or is it because of my Seedling? He¡¯d have his answers.


    Balancing the book on his lap, Callam flipped over the cover. Words faded in, then stuck to the paper.


    A Seeker¡¯s Guide to Early Translations


    Preface


    Esteemed Readers,


    It is my firm belief that magic, by its very nature, is an extension of language. It is not, as some would lead you to believe, an extension of the tangible senses, in the way you touch, smell, or taste. Instead, magic, by its very nature articulates a universal sensation felt by all humans. Who among you has not visited a chapel and felt at home among those sacred pews? Or climbed a hill and felt small among the grand trees? When you stare upon the stars, why do you seek to touch them? Name them, and build them in your image? When darkness falls and all goes quiet, why do the very hairs on your neck warn of violence?


    These are the questions that define all magics¡ªthe words in our grimoires give meaning to these feelings. It is my sincere hope that this book will give you an early mastery of this secret language and help you take the first steps on your journey to dominion over scripture.


    Callam blinked twice, then reread the first few sentences, heart pounding. ¡®Stare at the stars?¡¯ ¡®Raised hair?¡¯ For years, he¡¯d yearned to uncover all he could of Scriptors and grimoires, but he¡¯d never had a clear mental image of why magic worked. Oh, he¡¯d understood the unfairness of grimoires¡ªhow scripted ones were easier to bind and hoarded by the rich. Yet the inner workings of how magic functioned had remained a mystery.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Now things were clearer. It seemed the language of tomes tied together everything indescribable and made it tangible. Nearly nicking himself in his haste to turn the page, he read on:


    All* first spells follow an iambic pentameter, as this is the easiest type of magic for a tomebound to master.


    Callam frowned at the unfamiliar term. Resolving to ask Hill about it later, he returned his attention to the book.


    The reason for this pattern is simple: the body¡¯s rhythms work in cycles, so a spell done in meter rolls off the tongue and comes more naturally to the reader.


    In my own scholarly journey, I¡¯ve found examples to be most helpful when learning quickly. Here are some early spells and their meanings. Notice how your mind glides over each word and finds meaning in the syllables.


    ¡®Vocis ventis, maren calmaque stat,¡¯ Callam read, then quickly repeated aloud. His eyes went wide. It was as if his mind knew the words even as he spoke them, translating them to common tongue: Give voice to the winds, keep all else calm. Maybe it was his imagination that he suddenly felt more at ease.


    Skimming the page, he quickly spoke the next line, ¡®Luxis veni, umbrae vanesce.¡¯ Light comes, shadows vanish. This go-round, everything looked slightly brighter, he was sure of it. Breath quickening, he inspected the text. Are the words impacting my sens¡ª?


    ¡°Ooof,¡± Hill cut in, dropping a massive stack of books on the desk with a thud. ¡°Now where am I supposed to sit?¡±


    Engrossed as he was, Callam didn¡¯t respond.


    ¡°Excellent. The floor it is. Always felt an affinity for the hunchbacked. Posture is for princes, anyways.¡±


    That was enough to draw Callam away from his book. Stretching against the soft leather, he yawned. ¡°Doing you a favor, really. Becoming shorter has its advantages. Cheaper clothes, fewer girls. Think about the copper you¡¯ll save.¡±


    ¡°Savings I¡¯ll have to pass onto you, if you¡¯re to afford any of these,¡± Hill said, pointing to the books he¡¯d brought. ¡°I had to pull them from the restricted section¡ªno more than one per family. And I¡¯m still not positive I got anything of real value to you.¡±


    A beggar takes what¡¯s given. Putting the hard-cover aside and standing up, Callam asked, ¡°What¡¯s there for me to read?¡±


    ¡°Oh, so much.¡± Hill started piling Callam up with volumes. ¡°This one should give you an early history of Seedlings and the World Tree, while this,¡± he said, placing a book thick enough to stop a door onto the stack in Callam¡¯s arms, ¡°will contradict everything written in that one.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡± Callam grimaced under the literal and figurative weight of everything he did not know¡ªhis education was not what most would call ¡®robust.¡¯


    ¡°Yeah, problem is, they won¡¯t let you out of the store with any of these. This information is kept on lock and key.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine, I¡¯ll take a peek¡ª¡±


    "You can¡¯t yet, I''m afraid. See the spirals on the edges? These are spellwarded¡ªyou''ll need access to your mana in order to unlock them. But Don¡¯t fret,¡± he said before Callam could interrupt. ¡°We''ll take them to the front and ask that they make a note of them. This way they will be ready for you at our sister location near the Roots, once you can control your mana."


    Folly and fire! Callam swore silently. To think he¡¯d actually hoped to learn something about his Seedling before he arrived at the Tower and had to register it¡­


    One step back for every two forward.


    Following Hill, he trudged back through the store¡¯s many hallways, his arms straining under the stack of hardcovers nearly reaching his chin. ¡°Hill,¡± he asked when the man came to a stop in front of a bookshelf. ¡°What¡¯s iambic pentameter?¡±


    ¡°Only the most boring side of magic: language, rules, and such,¡± Hill said, pulling free a volume and adding it to Callam¡¯s load. ¡°Delve too much into this stuff and you¡¯ll end up toting books throughout the Tower, like me.¡±


    ¡°Right¡­ but how exactly does it work?¡±


    ¡°Pretty simply, really,¡± Hill answered a moment later, once they¡¯d found their place at the back of a long line of shoppers¡ªbuying customers, it seemed, were given priority. ¡°Iambic pentameter is a type of phrase where the stresses fall on every other syllable, starting with the second. Think of the Sermon¡¯s teachings. Remember those first few lines?


    ¡° ¡®The Prophet speaks. His voice, both grim and grand, reveals a fate that few can understand,¡¯ ¡± Callam grunted instinctively, looking around. Crow¡¯s foot, he needed to find somewhere to place these books.


    ¡°They¡¯ll make a Brother of you yet.¡±


    It was said in jest, yet Callam¡¯s skin prickled in protest. Years had healed the scars on his back, but no amount of time could erase the cuts the reed had left on his mind. To change the subject, he asked, ¡°If I were to put A Seeker¡¯s Guide to Early Translations on credit, how much would it be?¡±


    ¡°About five rymers, give or take.¡±


    Callam balked, suddenly immensely grateful he hadn¡¯t dropped anything. That was an ungodly amount of money¡ªmore than most would see in a year.


    ¡°What¡¯s that stanza again?¡± he asked. ¡°Those who leave riches unread¡­¡±


    ¡°...become starving men?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Clearly they never bought one of these.¡±


    Laughter filled the room; in that moment, Callam knew he could be friends with Hill. It wasn¡¯t lost on him, however, that no other attendant had their arms free.


    Hill was supposed to be the one carrying the damn books.


    Callam sighed. At least he¡¯d learned something vital about his grimoire today: whatever pattern first spells were said to follow, his didn¡¯t.

 Chapter Twenty-eight: Debts Owed

    "Don¡¯t you see?


    Sin was always our intention.


    When we met them, and they us,


    They approached with caution, wary of causing harm,


    We showed kindness only for fear of retaliation."


    ~~Count Iren, Tales of the Beasttide


    <hr>


    Evening came and went. Callam spent it seated at a small table under the aurelian oak tree, enjoying the last vestiges of the sun¡¯s warmth before the nighttime fog rolled in. His eyes were glued to his new book¡ªafter some serious hemming and hawing, he¡¯d bought A Seeker¡¯s Guide to Early Translations on credit. Just thinking of all the money he now owed made him wince.


    At least Hill was happy. Attendees received a commission on all sales, it turned out.


    The deciding factor, in the end, was the week Callam had left until the Tower; he¡¯d go stir-crazy without a means to expand his knowledge of magic between now and then. No, it was better he take on the debt and make his downtime meaningful. Besides, reading gave him a polite excuse to stay in his room, away from all the other orphans. He loved their cute little smiles and big, excited eyes, but was also certain they¡¯d commandeer all of his attention if they could.


    "Hot chocolate or water, dearie?" asked an older Ruddite lady, pushing the beverage trolley Callam had seen earlier. This was her second time coming around. Apparently, those who traded their life savings for paper received complimentary service until they left the shopping pavilion. Small wonder.


    Eying the cart regretfully, Callam said, ¡°I¡¯d better not. I¡¯ll be going soon.¡± Rejecting anything free still hurt in ways he struggled to describe.


    ¡°Better you have the coco, then,¡± the old woman said, her cheeks wrinkling into a smile. ¡°Hot days and cold nights make for a sore throat and a stitcher¡¯s cough.¡±


    That was enough to coax a nod from Callam; he happily accepted the wooden mug she¡¯d pulled for him, then almost burned his tongue on the first sip. While he waited for the liquid to cool, he returned to his book, propping it up so that it was better lit by the nearby streetlamps. He¡¯d yet to figure out why his first spell did not follow iambic pentameter, but felt like he was getting close.


    The Efficacy of Internal Magic Rhythms, Part II


    Magic is of book and self¡ªmore than anything else, this holds true. Therefore, our ¡°laws¡± associated with magic are no more than guidelines, and as with all guidelines, the exception proves the rule.


    In my travels I¡¯ve collected a few tellings of Scriptors who¡¯ve found non-lyrical means to manifest their magic. Oftentimes, these mages struggle with incantations for circumstances outside of their control¡ªindeed, for a copper and a meal, one young unbound shared with me the tale of a local Scriptor who¡¯d been born without the gift of speech. The lad insisted, despite this scholar''s disbelief, that the mage connected to his power through meditation. True or not, such a technique would undoubtedly require formidable mental fortitude. I can only assume that it would be much slower than singing, yet would afford the user the ability to skip the ¡°outloud¡± stage of spellcraft.


    That gave Callam pause. What had his grimoire said? He had ¡®fifteen days to level the powersource in his heart, or he¡¯d fail to find his start.¡¯ There was no way of knowing exactly what that meant, but the implications alone made his mouth dry.


    I¡¯ll try meditating, he decided, then wet his mouth with a hesitant sip of chocolate. Finding it pleasantly warm, he drank readily¡ªthe liquid¡¯s rich, sweet flavor soothed the knot that had been growing in Callam¡¯s stomach all afternoon.


    It helped make what he was about to do more digestible.


    Within the hour, he would be visiting Docks End to fulfill his promises. His earlier heist at the Writ¡¯s manor had required him to call in many favors. If he left for the Tower without settling those debts, it could be years before he was given leave to address them, and in his absence, the gangs were sure to go to the chapelward to collect.


    Not that the gangs can handle the Sisters.


    Closing his book, Callam started to pack his things. The plaza around him was noticeably louder than it had been thirty minutes ago¡ªfull of the chatter of Scriptors and nobles out on the town. Employees were already preparing for the night business, pulling floating lanterns across the tops of their stores¡¯ terracotta ceilings. The lights swayed gently in the wind, bright halos against the fog.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    That beauty was lost on Callam as he walked down the hill and through the entry gate. He knew that, while the Sisters were powerful enough to dissuade any direct confrontation, they could never protect the chapelward where it mattered most: recruitment.


    The Sootskins only stopped enlisting orphans because of their loyalty to me¡ªloyalty I suffered to earn.


    At the age of ten, he¡¯d been asked to pickpocket a wealthy pennypawner. Trouble was, the Sootskins hadn¡¯t told him he was meant to be caught. Within seconds, Callam¡¯s mark had trapped him against a snowbank, kicking him with such ferocity that he¡¯d loosened a tooth and cracked a rib. So consumed with rage was the merchant that he failed to notice the other boys breaking into his shop¡ªunbound who hadn¡¯t bothered to offer their newest member a split afterward.


    Yet, when guards had searched the dockside for the culprits behind the pennypawner robbery, Callam had kept his mouth shut. And when the Sootskins had needed a thief skilled in lock-picking, he¡¯d volunteered, understanding his beating to have been his initiation. His only condition was that the gang keep away from the younger orphans. They agreed¡ªat least until the kids turned thirteen and outgrew the chapel¡¯s care.


    Sand sifted into Callam¡¯s sandals, so he stopped to shake it loose. He¡¯d arrived back at Docks End, and was mere minutes from Pier Seven, the first step on the route to his destination. Beggars were already fighting over the best spots to settle in for the night; the thick, wooden pier sheltered them from both the elements and the city guards. No one wanted to be visible when a drunk constable made his rounds.


    After reaching the pier, Callam jumped across the creaking and broken planks, then quickly came to what was left of his old bed. As expected, his belongings had been ransacked¡ªhis blanket taken and the rope he¡¯d fashioned into a pillow pillaged.


    Those things he could part with. The rest¡­ Please still be here. Kneeling, he wrapped an arm under the dock¡¯s edge, leaning so far over the water a stiff wind would have sent him swimming. A tense moment of groping around later, his fingers brushed on brittle twine. Callam breathed a sigh of relief¡ªno one had discovered the small box he¡¯d hidden under the pier. After tugging it free, he settled into a more comfortable position on the dock and opened the lid.


    Inside were three treasures of immense value to him. The first was a small shiv, crafted by his own hand at the age of twelve. Protection in case things went astray tonight. Second was his coin bag, six coppers heavy. All he¡¯d had to his name prior to binding¡ªand while money would soon be no object, he¡¯d risked his life for this coin.


    Lastly, he retrieved a grass bracelet, his most prized possession prior to binding. Siela had tied it around his wrist only weeks before she passed, to commemorate him memorizing all of the Sermon¡¯s stanzas. Callam stared at it for a long while, his mind full of sweet memories. Then he slipped the woven band into his bag. Whatever happened next, he could leave Port Cardica in peace.


    Pocketing the dagger, he returned to the beach, then made for one of the beggar camps underneath the docks. Small fires peppered the sand; around one, he spotted several teens and Ruddites huddled for warmth. A particular woman sitting aside from the rest caught his attention. Dark skinned and frail, she was racked by the stitchers¡¯ cough every other second.


    ¡°Which harbor tonight?¡± he asked quietly, fishing his spare food from his bag. Seeing the poor lady always tugged at his heartstrings.


    ¡°Third¡­And first boat¡­¡± she rasped, stretching out a hand to accept the small meal.


    With a hurried ¡°thanks,¡± Callam was on his way¡ªhe would have given the woman some copper, but knew anything she couldn¡¯t eat would be stolen by morning.


    The trip to the Sootskin¡¯s boats took over half an hour. Normally, he would have traveled with his hackles raised, but tonight, as a Seeker among unbound and stitchers, he appeared more predator than prey. In his head, though, Callam worried. As a four-star tomebound, he was an extremely valuable asset to the Sootskins¡ªand with the chapelward as leverage, he was at their whims until he became powerful enough to burn them all to the ground.


    Another gang will just rise in their place. Callam sighed. Better the demon you know¡­


    His best option was to figure out how to secure his total freedom, while also keeping the children safe. A tall order, but it was that or abandon the orphans, and the very thought of the kids being coerced into violence made him recoil, Yet he also refused to spend his time at the Tower looking over his shoulder, wondering when the Sootskins would call on him to repay his favors owed.


    ¡°Nothing casts so great a shadow as a history unresolved,¡± Callam whispered. That stanza had never carried more weight with him than it did now.


    Spellwarded shiplights illuminated the petty-harbor shared by the Sootskins and local fishermen. Ten red-and-black sloops were barely visible in the sea, each connected to the other and the shore by wooden gangplanks. Callam walked up to the first boat, then carefully stepped inside and sat down. Such was protocol.


    A second later, he heard the creaking of the cabin¡¯s door.


    ¡°What skulks and creeps, though never seen, in shadows dark, or ''neath the sheen. Across the border, goods I bring,¡± said a young, cold voice.


    ¡°Silent as a bird on wing. What am I, who takes and gives, treading where no lawman lives?¡± Callam replied in kind.


    ¡°Smuggler.¡±


    ¡°Thief.¡± Callam had anticipated this song and knew the proper response.


    What he hadn''t anticipated was the tip of the knife in his back.


    <hr>


    We are sooo close to the tower I can almost taste it! Just three chapters to go!!!! If you have read this far and are loving the story, please consider dropping a review! Also patreon is 3 chapters ahead and every dollar goes back into editing.

 Chapter Twenty-Nine: Resolution

    ¡°Have you wondered why they exist, though?


    Two beacons touching the heavens. One tree, taller than both.


    Whose paths are they lighting?


    What ships have they seen?¡±


    ~~ Musings of the Fourth Poet on the nature of Titans


    <hr>


    ¡°L-lift your hands. Slowly.¡± Each syllable was accentuated by the pressure of steel against him.


    Callam already had no intention of doing as he was told, so the speaker¡¯s stutter gave him the confidence he needed to act. Instead of following directions, he coughed¡ªa hacking thing that instinctively drove him to cover his mouth with one hand. With the other, he palmed his shiv from pocket to sleeve, trusting both his improvised misdirection and the sloop¡¯s dim lighting to conceal his movements.


    Pain seared his back as metal cut through linen and grazed skin.


    ¡°Don¡¯t doubt I¡¯ll pierce that stitcher''s lung, Seeker,¡± the young voice behind him spat.


    No hesitation. Callam clenched his teeth against the sting. The earlier stammer had clearly been a ruse.


    Not stupid, then. Yet too green to recognize my sleight of hand.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to pay my respects and settle debts.¡± His years on the streets had taught him to be direct. Besides, he was too worn out from Binding Day to feel truly afraid in a situation like this. He leaned into that sense of apathy, turning his exhaustion into bravery.


    Let the Sootskin think him fearless; they might not realize how desperately he wanted to protect the orphans.


    ¡°The Cinderthief knows why you¡¯ve come. I¡¯m to separate you from it.¡± The boy nudged at Callam¡¯s bookbag with his foot. ¡°Pass it over.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± While the passphrase was an easy way to deter outsiders, this was the real test¡ªif Callam folded now, he¡¯d be dealt no further hands. He¡¯d be allowed to leave, alright, but as a lackey, not an equal.


    More pain punished his refusal. Callam nearly screamed¡ªthis time the knife drew blood, and within seconds he felt the harsh linen of his shirt begin to dampen.


    ¡°Give it. Here.¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ on my¡­ life.¡± The words came out more labored than Callam would have liked, and for a moment, he considered throwing himself to the waves and swimming to shore. Yet he stayed, knowing this sham would be over soon.


    After all, there was no way they¡¯d assigned the removal of his tome to one Sootskin. Not while the sloop was still moored and escape was so easy.


    The clacking of boots on wood proved him right. By the sound of it, three more Sootskins were making their way over the gangplanks. Then the boat shuddered, and Callam guessed another two were climbing on board¡ªa full house, their standard infiltration technique.


    ¡°So it''s true what they say. There are still men with pebbles you can¡¯t break.¡± Green eyes sparkled in the harbor gloom, and a wolfish smile came into view. A step later, the pale white visage and dark brown hair of Merra, the Sootskin¡¯s Cinderthief, became visible.


    Perfectly manicured brows furrowed as she inspected Callam.


    He blanched, working hard to keep his face impassive. To some, Merra was simply beautiful; to him, everything about her appearance seemed carefully crafted to accentuate her features. Striking looks were just another weapon in her arsenal.


    Fitting for a woman who¡¯s made a habit of turning street kids into killers.


    ¡°Merra.¡± Callam nodded, trying to ignore how cramped the sloop felt with five unbound around him. ¡°Stabbings are Docks End¡¯s new ¡®hello¡¯?¡±


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°Only for my favorite Seekers.¡±


    ¡°Hate to be on bad terms, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d say we¡¯ve passed that point already.¡± With graceful ease, she sat on the crosspiece at the prow of the boat, her bookbag laying at her side. A dull, three-star grimoire peeked out from under a leather flap. ¡°News being what it is.¡±


    What? Callam was beyond confused now. ¡°News of the Broken, or my book?¡±


    Anger flashed in those emerald eyes. ¡°Of the Writs. You think me a fool?¡±


    Nothing clicked.


    ¡°Answer th¡¯ lady,¡± growled a massive Sootskin to Callam¡¯s left, brandishing a knife. The boy crept closer, nearly throwing the stationary ship off balance.


    ¡°Careful, lackwits. You¡¯ll tip us!¡± Merra snapped, then pointed to the oars. ¡°Sit down and row. You too, Hawk.¡±


    At her command, the burly boys grumbled, then obeyed. Another Seeker might have laughed at their sullenness, yet Callam would not waste time on such stupidities. He was far too preoccupied with thinking of a backup plan in case things here went south.


    Unfortunately, he was surrounded and bleeding. Worse, they¡¯d soon be too far out at sea for him to swim back.


    ¡°What of the Writs?¡± he asked, trying to sound calm. It was easier said than done¡ªhis heart had started to pound like a bellow.


    ¡°Don¡¯t play coy, Callam. I helped you plan your heist, yet your Grimoire is not dull like mine.¡± Venom filled those words. ¡°Tell me, which of my secrets did you sell to be allowed to bind?¡±


    At once, everything made sense. The aggression, the lack of interest in negotiation¡­ Merra thought him a bought man.


    ¡°They took me to Binding Day.¡± Even as Callam said the words, he knew how they would sound. So, he acted. In one movement he came to his feet and lunged across the boat¡¯s width, shiv in hand. Two soaked Sootskins stood along the boat¡¯s edge, both stumbling as the sloop pitched. One recovered quickly, dodging to Callam¡¯s left. The other was not fast enough.


    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± Callam shouted, his free hand grabbing the boy¡¯s wet shirt and pulling him close. Heat built up behind them, whispered words hinting that Merra was priming a spell. Acting on instinct, Callam put the unbound between himself and the magic, then placed his weapon against the boy¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Listen to what I¡¯ve to say!¡±


    No luck. All around, the Sootskin had pulled out weapons and were approaching, the boat swaying under their weight. Merra held fire in her hands, which flickered orange and blue. ¡°I¡¯ll have my revenge, Quill. If you don¡¯t think I¡¯ll burn him to get to you¡­¡±


    For a long second, Callam believed her. He saw the malice on her face, felt the immense warmth of her flame, and thought Merra a monster akin to the Broken.


    Then he realized she¡¯d tipped her hand. If she was really willing to kill one of her own in cold blood, she would never just threaten it. She¡¯d do it. Demonstrating such callous indifference would serve to both reinforce her authority and ensure his cooperation.


    Likewise, if she were solely a shrewd kingpin, she would have noticed how his offhand trembled, even as he fought to keep his weapon-hand still. She also would have noted the water at his feet, and how it made any further retreat treacherous.


    No, as he tried to ignore the rush of blood in his ears, Callam concluded that Merra was lying through her teeth.


    He just had to call her bluff.


    Forgive me, Siela. Applying a bit of pressure, Callam pushed down on his blade until he¡¯d nicked the captive boy¡¯s neck. It was a disdainful thing to do to a child, and an action his sister would have taken issue with, but he didn¡¯t have a better option.


    ¡°Listen, Merra,¡± he said again, more forcefully. ¡°Why would I come here a traitor?¡±


    A simple question, yet the right one, and it hung in the air for a tense moment.


    ¡°Stand down,¡± Merra finally said, though she did not quell her flame. Turning to Callam, her eyes flashed. ¡°Explain.¡±


    ¡°Parts still elude me. When I was caught, I was certain I¡¯d be killed. Tortured for sport¡­ you know how those families that frequent the port are. Yet the next morning, they were healing me. I was told that Mrs. Writ is a real bleeding heart. Devoted, believes the Few are truly Fated¡­¡±


    ¡°She thought you had the makings of a great Ruddite, then? Destined to serve at her feet?¡±


    ¡°Something to that effect¡ªcareful,¡± Callam warned, tightening his grip on his Sootskin prisoner¡¯s collar. The enterprising unbound had tried to take advantage of a rogue wave to wriggle away. ¡°I was too wrapped up in Binding Day to care. I¡¯m guessing she felt the Prophet should decide if I live or die.¡±


    ¡°Fitting,¡± Merra said, finally releasing her spell and returning to the ship''s prow. There, she lit little flames on her fingertips, then doused them in turn. ¡°They¡¯d have us believe it charity, letting a ceremony define our lot. Why do the dirty work of enslaving us, when they can simply leave it to the Gods?¡±


    For the first time since boarding the boat, Callam felt himself relax. Merra seemed to be truly invested in his story, and if his hunch was right, she wouldn¡¯t threaten him again. However, the same couldn¡¯t be said for her crew. While most of them seemed bright enough, the two who¡¯d been manning the oars did not.


    They look like they can¡¯t tell a noose from a rope if it hangs at the gallows.

 Chapter Thirty: Callam鈥檚 First Cast

    Is it not hardship that proves the greatest teacher?


    Would you not consider them spoiled,


    With their empty stomachs and tattered clothes?


    While our children sleep on down pillows and drink Southern wine,


    Remember: for the perjury of afterlife,


    Only those who¡¯ve lived with nothing die prepared.


    ~~Ramblings of Ser Queenskin


    Surviving Dock''s End demanded a constable¡¯s intuition. Like all orphans, Callam had quickly learned the basics: a timid mark always proved twice as vigilant; a late-night prowler was only as dangerous as his disarming smile; and a charitable cook could rarely be trusted¡ªthere was no guarantee they hadn¡¯t spiked the free meal with drugger¡¯s resin.


    So, after ten minutes of conversation, when Callam¡¯s instincts screamed at him that something was amiss, he paid attention. With wide eyes, he searched the sloop for signs of betrayal, yet none of the Sootskins had made a move. Merra, for her part, had done nothing to threaten him since hearing the bulk of his story. If anything, she had become more pensive the more she listened.


    The rest of her crew seemed equally absorbed in his tale. Not a coup, then. A glance to his left and right confirmed they weren¡¯t being tailed, with only a few nautical lanterns visible in the distance. Looking up, no wings disturbed the moonlit sky. That only left¡ª


    ¡°I¡¯m inclined to believe you,¡± Merra spoke, interrupting Callam¡¯s thoughts. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make us even, though. You owe a favor¡ª¡±


    ¡°Quiet.¡± Releasing his hostage, Callam knelt down onto the boat¡¯s floor. His pulse thundered in his ears. He lifted his fist, signaling for silence¡ªthankfully, he got it. The crew reacted almost immediately, each joining him at the sloop¡¯s perimeter; whatever their differences, all Sootskins memorized the twelve hand signs used to avoid guards and competing gangs. Only Merra stayed standing, positioning herself in front of the starboard door. Her scripted grimoire blazed red, and a flare whizzed into the sky a moment later.


    Apparently, she was thinking the same thing as him. Oceanstriders from below.


    Rarely did the kraken-like beasts come so close to port in the summer, but when they did, it was always on quiet nights like this one, where the only sounds were the slapping of waves against the hull. Callam had heard sailors theorize that the Oceanstriders¡¯ songs traveled farther in fine weather, allowing for more-coordinated attacks.


    ¡°Boys, to oar,¡± Merra whispered after several long, tense seconds. ¡°Can¡¯t be stuck at sea mid beastwave.¡± Nodding, Callam returned his attention to the water, his bookbag and shiv clutched tightly in his hands. Now and then, he spotted patches of still ocean amidst the churning waves.


    Merra¡¯s right. Long as we move carefully, we¡¯ll be okay, he reminded himself.


    All signs pointed to the beasts preferring the ruckus of large fishing vessels over the relative tranquility of smaller boats. A stray tentacle might peek aboard, but the nest itself would swim on by, intent on harassing the shores.


    He knew all this. Why, then, did he feel an ascetic¡¯s need to pray?


    Around Callam, most of the crew had already crept back to their stations. Moments later, paddles cut into water, and he released a held breath as the sloop began its trip back to the port. With any luck, they¡¯d¡ª


    Volleys of flares shot through the air, each punctuated by the tolling of a bell. ¡°S-SWARM OF OCEANSTRIDERS, EAST BA¡ª¡± someone in the distance shouted, their words dissolving into a terrified scream mid-sentence.


    A second later, four visible ship lights became three.


    ¡°Onwards!¡± Merra commanded, her voice tinged with fear. Callam knew her crew was already doing everything they could do, their heads ducked down to avoid any loose tentacles that might come aboard. For his part, he found his feet and stumbled to Merra¡¯s side as the boat picked up speed. Scriptors were sure to have heard the warning bell and would be coming port-side soon. This crew would simply have to survive long enough for that help to arrive.


    If I¡¯d only learned a few spells. In his mind, he repeated the verses he¡¯d learned earlier, hopeful for some insight. There was nothing worse than feeling useless in a fight.


    ¡°Any offensive magic in that book, Seeker?¡± Merra whispered, her arm up against the boat¡¯s rail to stabilize herself. A stupid question, yet exactly the type needed to draw him from his daze.


    ¡°Why cast spells¡­¡± Callam replied with a grim smile, hefting his bag. ¡°when I can whack them with this?¡±


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    ¡°I¡¯ve a couple forms of attack-magics in my arsenal, but both require time to prepare. My grimoire¡¯s got nothing to speed us up either.¡±


    Nodding, Callam gripped the otherside of the gunwale, his entire focus on staying on his feet. He¡¯d have to buy Merra time, somehow. Waves began to climb on all sides, the formerly still pockets of water now cresting above the tide. Any moment the¡­


    ¡°By the Poet!¡± screamed a Sootskin to Callam¡¯s left as a surge caught the rear end of the sloop and pitched her down into a swell. As one, the crew was thrown forward¡ªthe rowers had it best, able to use the oarlocks for leverage.


    ¡°Hold on!¡± Merra said, then began to cast, her words lost to the wind.


    Callam did as he was told, his body pigeonholed into one of the boat¡¯s nooks. Cold spray tumbled in, threatening to wash him out, but he held steady and stole a peek over his shoulder.


    His stomach dropped. They weren¡¯t near the swarm; they were part of it. Thousands of massive air bubbles rose from the ocean, popping and spraying like water boiling in a pot. Red-and-yellow tendrils¡ªmore than he could possibly count¡ªbreached the surface, their oily tips darting this way and that in search of sustenance.


    ¡°Merra!¡± he cried out. ¡°Forget the spell. We have to distract them!¡± There was no other way they would reach the port alive.


    ¡°And how do you propose we accomplish that?¡± she demanded, her temper flaring. ¡°The other sloops are too distant to serve as bait!¡±


    Bait? Callam¡¯s mouth soured. He made to respond, only to choke back his retort when another wave struck the prow. Spitting out a mouthful of briny water, he wiped his face clear.


    Merra¡¯s allegiance lay solely with her gang, that much was obvious. Yet her words had kindled a desperate idea in his mind.


    ¡°Blow the roof off the boat, then,¡± he bellowed.


    ¡°You¡¯d have me sink us¡­¡± Recognition flashed in her eyes. Glancing around, she said, ¡°I¡¯ll need more time to prepare a spell of that magnitude.¡±


    Callam didn¡¯t say anything; the rest would be up to him and the crew.


    Tentacles gripped the undercarriage a second later, their suckers emitting a chittering song that sounded of clanking chains and sails whipping at sea. The whole boat convulsed under the pressure, yet the spellworked wood rebuffed the first attack.


    The Sootskins did not fare as well. With a scream for help, the boy who¡¯d previously held Callam at knifepoint was nearly swept from the boat, a rogue tendril having caught his foot.


    ¡°Unbound, daggers out!¡± Callam shouted, sliding forward and slashing down. Shiv punctured skin and the tendril released, only for another to take its place. A quick stab later, it too retreated into the ocean.


    ¡°T-thanks,¡± the boy muttered. This time the stutter was real.


    His brothers did not all prove so lucky.


    ¡°Help m¡ª!¡± one of them started to shout, only for his cry to be immediately cut off.


    Spinning, Callam steeled his heart. With a sickening feeling, he watched as the young boy was dragged under¡ªhe¡¯d never get to the Sootskin in time. The entirety of the ship¡¯s small deck was under siege, tendrils swarming in from everywhere. Their only hope now lay in the torch-lit coast ahead and in their crazy plan.


    ¡° ¡®Prosper in His light,¡¯ ¡± he whispered, knowing he couldn¡¯t possibly save them all.


    With a boom, one of the dark bubbles behind them burst, shooting the sloop forward with such force that they were freed from many of the tendrils. Freezing water flooded the ship¡¯s bulwark, some of the exposed wood having finally given in.


    We¡¯ve no one to bail, Callam realized in horror. Then Merra shouted his name, so he turned urgently to face her.


    Fifteen loose, writhing tendrils surrounded her at the hatchway, each a remnant of the Sootskin¡¯s knifework. Yet where the tentacles should have stayed dormant without a connection to their hive, they moved and wriggled still, drawn like flies to her flame.


    A dash later, and he skewered the first tendril that clung to her arms. It screamed in protest, yellow liquid oozing from its body as the dagger dug deep. He had no doubt that Merra could handle these weakened beasts, but not without canceling her cast¡ªthe fire in her hands glowed brightly, and he guessed she¡¯d be ready in under a minute. The things seemed intent on delaying the Cinderthief; they stretched toward her, the sheaths at their tips unfolding to reveal sharp, deadly beaks.


    Withdrawing the knife, Callam lunged for the next tendril creeping up Merra¡¯s leg. His shiv had just cleared the distance when the boat bucked, causing him to slip. Falling hard to his knees, he skidded down the sloop¡¯s length¡ªthe knife flew overboard. Only the thin leather strap of his bookbag kept his grimoire from following it.


    No!


    Pushing himself back up, he looked to Merra and saw pain mar her moonlit features. Several of the beaks jabbed at her flame, drawing blood as they clipped her hands and skin.


    Worse, her expression told him the whole story. When it came to it, he knew she¡¯d pick self-preservation over everything.


    Even if it meant dooming her crew.


    I¡¯ve got to do something.


    Phrases came to his head, and he mouthed them all. ¡°Vocis ventis, maren calmaque stat.¡± No winds rose to meet him. ¡°Luxis veni, umbrae vanesce.¡± Shadows lightened around him¡ªfor a moment, he thought he¡¯d cast a spell. Then nothing.


    Finally, his mind tore to that first spell he¡¯d memorized the night before.


    ¡°Infer Atrea Intus!¡± he shouted¡ªat once his lips went numb and a dozen tendrils stopped their attacks, as if drawn by his incantation.

 Chapter Thirty Part II: The Making of Magic (Mini Arc Finale)

    Angry clicking and chittering filled Callam¡¯s ears. Six of the dismembered Oceanstriders began to slither his way¡ªa blessing, since his spell hadn¡¯t actually done anything other than make him shiver. The beasts proved surprisingly nimble, their suckers allowing them traction on the slick wooden surface.


    Not good enough. Too many continued to peck away at Merra, and she was certain to break soon.


    Callam kicked off in her direction, his hands out, his mind disgusted by the idea of touching the slimy skin. He¡¯d managed to travel less than a foot before a tendril finished climbing the hatch, shot out, and clipped right through the side of Merra¡¯s ear.


    Blood sprayed the deck. She screamed, her hands blazing red¡ªa second more and she was sure to release her spell early.


    Thankfully, a wave chose that moment to toss the boat, forcing Merra to brace herself or risk losing her footing. For his part, Callam slid, his eyes remaining fixed on Merra¡¯s flame the whole time. Already, she was re-adjusting her aim toward the creatures surrounding her.


    She¡¯d given up on their plan.


    If he didn¡¯t manage to do some real magic, they would die. Another surge struck the boat and, having no time to lose, Callam allowed himself to fall. He hit the brown wood hard, yet barely noticed the jolt of pain as his shoulder bounced off the deck.


    Jamming his hand into his bookbag, he shouted, ¡°Infer Atrea Intus!¡± a second time. Again, the words came out, but the actual magic seemed to fizzle on his tongue.


    Maybe I¡¯ve to mold the spell into iambic perimeter?


    Holding onto that spark of inspiration, he tried to muscle his way to a solution and immediately realized it would take far too long. He was no linguistics expert¡ªPoet¡¯s hand, he¡¯d only learned to read the night prior. Still, whispers of meaning tickled at his subconscious, and he felt he was on the right track. The answer was within his reach, right outside the door of comprehension.


    Suddenly, a simpler pattern began to form. He followed its guidance, slicing off vowels and rearranging letters, trying to mold the magic into his own. He had no delusion that it would work, but what else could he do? He poured himself into the words. Sang it with his soul. He begged the power to come out from him, and when that didn¡¯t work, begged it to come to him.


    ¡°Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus!¡± he bellowed, his pulse racing. The phrase was the exact opposite of iambic pentameter.


    Around him, time seemed to stop. Where before he¡¯d shivered, now a deep chill shot through his body. Magic traveled with it. It touched the deepest parts of him, plucking at his heart strings. The tune struck, and gold light burst from Callam¡¯s book bag, flooding the sloop in a blinding radiance. All living things in his vicinity became translucent¡ªhe could see a constellation of essence inside each of them. Invisible strands of dark ink swam between those galaxies, filling the interstitial spaces. Within the tendrils, the pigment coalesced into a dense tapestry of knots and threads connecting the beasts to one another and to their hive.


    The energy in their pigment begged to be freed. To be his.


    Directing his will toward the tentacle closest to him, he grasped the ink and ripped it apart. Black particles fluttered in the air for just a moment before streaming his way.


    Time condensed, and Callam was thrown back to those terrible nights where he¡¯d fought off beggars for a single blanket. A gasp escaped his lips, the breath whistling through his teeth. In front of him, he watched another of the Sootskins become lost to the sea, the boy¡¯s cries muffled by the dark depths. The tendril Callam¡¯s spell had targeted fell noiselessly to the deck¡ªinstantly, all its brethren went insane. Hate filled those beaks. They clamped open and shut in an off-harmony that bruised the ear.


    Merra¡¯s firelight gleamed on their backs as they swarmed in his direction, pulling and slinking themselves across the soaked floor with unexpected speed.


    Finally, the echo of her spell cut through the din as she turned and blew the ceiling right off the ship.


    Thousands of bubbles popped as Oceanstriders rose from the waves, congregating on the pieces of charred wood now floating in the ocean. Their joyful song pierced the skies.


    The beasts believed their hunt had borne fruit.


    And just like that, the sloop was free from most of the swarm. Swells built with each additional pop, nearly drowning what remained of the boat, but the majority of the spellworked hull held steady. Merra was already moving, her own dagger dicing up the tendrils headed Callam¡¯s way.


    Seconds later she was at his side, and the look on her face was now more caring than callous. Firm fingers pressed air into his chest, yet he was too numb to feel their touch on his skin.


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    ¡°Don¡¯t die on me, lackwit. We Sootskins stick together.¡±


    ~~~


    Something soft and wet licked at Callam¡¯s forehead, and for a moment he thought the Chapelward had finally acceded to his childhood demands that they adopt a dog. A frayed texture challenged that belief, and he groggily realized that a stiff rag was being applied to his forehead. Not too carefully, either¡ªwarm salt water kept stinging his eyes.


    ¡°... Merra?¡± he tried to whisper, but his voice cracked. Trying again, he mumbled, ¡°W¡­ater.¡± Siela had told him of high deserts with sandscrits that scorched the skin, and right now his throat felt like one.


    ¡°No, silly, I¡¯m Rianne,¡± a girl giggled, her high-pitch marking her as well under thirteen. ¡°Here!¡± she said, and a moment later the water from a ladle mercifully wet his lips. Part of him wanted to lie there forever, drinking his fill until his head stopped pounding, yet he found himself struggling to sit up.


    We had a deal!


    To recruit an unbound so young was unconscionable, and Callam refused to stay silent. He quickly scanned his surroundings; he was resting on a small bed in a wide room laden with rugs and children¡¯s toys. A desk played king in one corner, ruling over half the free space with its impressive roll-top and dovetail drawers. At the foot of the bed, a brunette girl no older than eight balanced a large metal bucket with a spout on her lap. To her right, Merra lounged in a bedside armchair, her nose in a book. By all accounts, she looked sound asleep.


    That would not do.


    ¡°Lying witch!¡± he shouted, though it came out as barely more than a croak.


    With a start, the Cinderthief awoke. ¡°Which what¡­? I¡¯ll have the¡­¡± she said, then yawned as she became aware of her surroundings. ¡°Callam. I didn¡¯t realize you were awake.¡±


    ¡°Sis! Sis, I watered him just like you said! Just like my plants!¡±


    Sis? For a second the words hung in the air, and Callam had to really focus his throbbing head to comprehend them. The toys, the watering can and rags¡­ Oh.


    Merra, Cinderthief of the Sootskins, was a doting older sister.


    So it''s not a violation, he thought, crashing back down onto the pillow. Good. Sleep teased the corner of his lids once again, and within moments he was drifting off,


    ¡°We¡¯ve still to discuss your favors owed.¡±


    Snapping his eyes back open, Callam found his voice. ¡°If not for me, you¡¯d have lost all your crew.¡± Anger colored his tone; he was in no mood to play games.


    ¡°Sootskin are replaceable.¡±


    ¡°... and their leader more so.¡± Memories from the night he¡¯d spent cowering from the pennypawner¡¯s kicks flooded his mind, fueling his anger. This time, he managed to shove himself up to a sitting position with ease.


    Only then did he notice the smile playing across her lips. ¡°Relax. I think we can both agree your debts are paid in full.¡±


    Callam stayed quiet at that, slouching as his weariness sunk back in. This wasn¡¯t exactly how he¡¯d planned to earn his freedom tonight, but he¡¯d take it. He¡¯d even managed to cast his first spell.


    ¡°Merra,¡± he said finally. ¡°Where are my pants?¡±


    ~~~~


    Niles could handle everything about the carriage but the stench. For the past few days, he''d been trapped inside a jailor''s wagon with twenty other Ruddites as they made their way to the southern mines. Metal dug into his hands and feet, and a heavy, uncomfortable chain looped around his waist. Yet Niles didn¡¯t mind the constraints¡ªhe understood this was all part of the gods¡¯ plan.


    The smell though? That, he couldn¡¯t stand. Would it have killed these wretched men to shower before their imprisonment?


    ¡°Steady¡­¡± he heard the horse-master shout through the iron door, then felt the carriage jolt to a stop a moment later. Around him, boys rustled and moaned, not an intelligent expression among them. These were broken men, he¡¯d realized. Hopeless men who had not yet recognized the importance of accepting the Prophet''s gift into their hearts.


    Not Niles though. He was no heretic. He''d done as the Endless demanded, and when he''d failed, he''d accepted his fate.


    When news of his punishment had reached Phiry¡¯s ears, she¡¯d raged against their parents for forcing him to chase such a wild dream. As twins, he''d always felt that they should be aligned in their vision, yet her actions when he¡¯d been branded a Ruddite had been distasteful to say the least. She¡¯d refused to accept that this was his path.


    ¡°Single file,¡± the man opening the carriage door demanded. Thin and straight-backed, he had a no-nonsense look to him that Niles could admire. He was not the type of man to tolerate fools.


    One by one, Ruddites of the lowest castes were paraded down several ramps, then herded through a set of maw-like caverns lit by bioluminescent plants and wall-mounted torches. At the end of a particularly narrow cave, they were greeted by the mine master, a tall, thick-armed fellow with a head so smooth it could have passed for a stone in the right lighting.


    ¡°Ruddites,¡± the man shouted. ¡°Today is the first of many hard days to come. I won''t lie to you. Mining is man''s work¡ªand of those here, I see scant few men. Each day, you are to wake at five. Prayer and penance last until dawn, then the first shift begins. Meals are served at midday, and six. Between then, we dig. Each of you is bound to a fifteen-year tenure. Work hard, and you may shave years off that term. Supplies are here," the man said, gesturing to a bucket full of tools. "We start now."


    A click later, Niles felt the spellworked manacles around his feet unlock. Ruddites shuffled forward all around him, grabbing picks and bags, their shoulders slumped and eyes distant.


    ¡°How quickly men break when faced with adversity,¡± he whispered to himself. His mother had said that once, when their warden had been too weak to do what had to be done to an unbound thief.


    Niles would show no such weakness¡ªnor would he lose hope or give up. He was one of the Fated and knew his future was already written.


    Only a coward cries wolf when he has a flock to lead.

 Chapter Thirty-one: The Tower

    Man has never met a mountain he did not wish to climb.


    Why, then, does he always fear the trip back?


    The distance traveled is the same,


    Only this time the destination is not the peak,


    It is home. It is death.


    ~~Reflections on the crossroads of midlife, Scriptor Azreal


    <hr>


    ¡°Better a snail than a seasider¡¯s sense of urgency.¡± A poor adage, but one common enough Callam could recite it by heart. Visiting merchants were quick to slam their cups down on taproom tables, dismissing the local staff as too slow without ever realizing that island nations and port cities lived by the cadence of their boats. Commerce and commotion arrived with the ships, so most Ruddities awoke early to meet the tides, then hung their hats up when the waters returned. Any meals shared or business conducted outside of ocean hours tended to be leisurely affairs, best enjoyed with a healthy serving of patience.


    Callam knew this. Yet he still felt stir crazy in the wake of the Oceanstrider attacks. The city lay dormant, all its shipping and trade halted and many of its smaller shops closed. That meant there was nothing to distract him as he counted down the days until the Tower.


    Time seemed to crawl. He spent the majority of the following week recovering in the chapelward¡¯s tiny guest room, his body sore from his battle and his mind weary from the exertion of casting his first spell. What little time he wasn¡¯t bedridden, he devoted to the orphans. His initial assumptions had proved correct, and the young ones fought for his attention at every turn¡ªhe was their tree, and they were critters and climbers both. With nothing happening around the city to entertain them, he was truly at their mercy.


    Only the nights were really his own. The Sisters enforced a strict bedtime on the young unbound, and the older kids had their own furtive affairs to tend to whenever the sun fell. Callam made the most of those quiet hours, using them to practice his one spell and to gawk at his grimoire. Unfortunately, he didn¡¯t come close to replicating that rush of cold he¡¯d felt when he¡¯d finally cast, despite hours of effort. He wasn¡¯t discouraged, however¡ªhe assumed it had something to do with the most recent message in his grimoire. As soon as Merra and her Sootskins had left him on the shore, he¡¯d opened his spellbook to find that he¡¯d completed the book¡¯s first challenge.


    Foreword: For Callam Quill, bonded companion.


    Callam Quill, Mage, Level 1.


    Grimoire Type: Unknown.


    Starlevel: Four.


    Skills: Literacy.


    Talents: Streetwise. Puzzles come easily to you.


    Spells: Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus (Exhausted)


    Prologue: Your first spell


    Life grants magic and misery in equal measure.


    For most, the beginning foreshadows the end. Talent dictates their prosperity¡ªfrom the first stone thrown, they are measured and nurtured. For others, struggle is paramount. The rock is heavy in their hands, and when heaved does not fly far.


    Yet, when the stones are collected and the final lines drawn, it is often the latter that travels further, if the thrower¡¯s resolve is steadfast.


    You did not falter and have leveled the power in your heart.


    Incantation: Infer Atrea Intus


    Timeline: NA. Proceed to the Eastern Lighthouse (The Seeker''s Tower) for further advancement.


    That night, Callam had stared at the words, ¡°Level One,¡± until dawn¡¯s light had broken through the fog, a smile stretched across his face. As far as he knew, levels were directly connected to the Tower¡¯s many floors, indicating what a Seeker could climb safely to. Most mages never cleared level three¡ªwith Scriptors earning their titles by being able to reach level ten¡ªso for him to have leveled up after a single spell filled him with excitement.


    Then again, I started at level zero, he¡¯d thought. Maybe he was just catching up with his peers.


    He¡¯d dispelled that painful notion by trying to cast a second time. Each attempt had failed miserably. With his torn pants, bare feet sunk in the cool sand, and wild, salt-slicked hair, he¡¯d imagined he looked like a deranged pirate muttering words into the sky.


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    Still, what else was he to have done? He¡¯d succeeded once¡ªtasted that power and seen the good it could do. More of him might have mourned the lost Sootskins, had he not already realized the truth: three boys had lived because of him, where before six would have died.


    No. Prophet willing, he had to master his magic. Had to live up to Siela¡¯s memory and his own potential. He¡¯d resolved to allow nothing to stop him, not even the pesky word ¡°exhausted,¡± whatever that meant.


    So, that was exactly what he did. There was progress, if only marginal. With each repetition, the phrases came more easily, until they were a part of him in the same way that breathing was. Soon, he felt confident he could repeat them under duress without thinking¡ªnow he just needed them to do something again. The week ticked by until finally it was time for him to take his leave. He shared a rushed breakfast with the Sisters and the chapelward, packed his few things, and made for the portals.


    The arched, marble teleporters were as little fun as Callam remembered them being during Binding Day. They flickered black with each body they let through, the giant gateways promising to leave him nauseous and disoriented. Guests were allowed in only one group at a time, so he watched the line crawl forward with a growing sense of dread.


    Won¡¯t the queue move any faster? Seeker or not, he hated waiting¡ªhated the tension that came with being so close to his destination. Out of habit, he rubbed the Seedling¡¯s scar on his hand, then tightened the strap of his bookbag and straightened the edges of his linen shirt. He¡¯d spent a week dreaming, yet a small voice inside of him still begged him to run back to the chapelward and its relative safety.


    ¡°Excitement and anxiety share a page,¡± Siela had always told him. Too bad understanding didn¡¯t make it any easier.


    Hoping to dispel his unease, Callam joined a small crowd of literates reading a plaque that explained the portal system. It stated that the gates streamlined the effort required to travel between two points, but they did not remove the geographical barriers between them. As a result, crossing over mountains, or through oceans, required more power than traversing flat land, and was generally too expensive and magically demanding to be practical.


    That¡¯s why the portal to the Tower is only open today, he realized. From everything he¡¯d heard, the Lighthouse was located on the Solstice Isles hundreds of miles¡ªand several mountain ranges¡ªaway.


    ¡°Next!¡± called the heavyset woman moderating the gate. A small patch on her tunic marked her a Ruddite. She clicked what looked like a spellworked stop-watch when he stepped up.


    Seconds later, Callam was overcome with vertigo. Darkness suffocated him, the world seemed to disappear beneath him, and his stomach flipped. Then, his feet found the ground. His whole mouth tasted of bile and he felt an overwhelming need to scrape his tongue clean with his teeth¡ªa need that died on the vine as he looked up.


    In front of him was the largest structure he¡¯d ever seen. Paintings had not done it justice. They always pinned the Tower to the horizon, using the sun and ocean in the distance as a way to convey its size. In reality, the building was the horizon, stretching upwards to the stars. He counted innumerable stories, each dozens of feet high, all made of limestone. Thousands of carvings etched the rocks. Callam spotted the masts of ships, the wings of dragons, the outlines of several maps, and the bodies of small, rotund creatures that he couldn¡¯t quite place yet looked strikingly familiar. Clouds circled the higher floors, casting shadows which played tricks on his eyes. Some were thin enough to allow in dappled rays of light, while others doused the rocks in sinister darkness.


    Instinctively, Callam took a step to steady himself; it was as the stanzas said: ¡®All men are meek among giants.¡¯


    ¡°Callam!¡± someone shouted, breaking him from his reverie. Turning, he knew who he¡¯d see: the quirky Scriptor who had walked him to the binding dais and helped him escape the Broken. Today, she¡¯d donned another of her classic outfits¡ªyellow robe, yellow hat, and two red gloves that were out of place in the tropical heat. She was surrounded by over a dozen tomebound chatting away. Future classmates if he had to guess.


    ¡°On rotation here?¡± he asked politely when she¡¯d made her way over to him, then added ¡°Arlie?¡± once he¡¯d remembered her name. The Sisters had explained to him that Scriptors were often recalled to the tower for administrative reasons or to further their educations.


    ¡°Only for the day! Just between us, the Elders thought it best to greet your class with familiar faces. After all that craziness with the ceremony, you know.¡±


    As usual, she spoke very quickly and gave Callam little time to respond. Already, she had spun around, and he watched with a slight grin as she made her way down a sandy path, toward the large crowd of teens settled on the beach. In the few times he¡¯d met her, Arlie had never seemed anything but chipper.


    The rest of the literate appeared more measured in their emotions. Some, like Callam, looked excited and nervous while they talked among themselves and their friends. Others seemed quiet and contemplative. He spotted a few faces he recognized, but none that he cared for. Airster had apparently bound, and the sneer he gave as Callam approached showed that his opinion of Callam had not changed one bit. Surprisingly, Zallorin was also here, standing under a starleaf palm and surrounded by a flock of nobleborn. Even among Seekers, the wealthy had their markers¡ªmost wore new garments free of stains or faded dyes. Family crests graced the cloths.


    No Hans or¡ª Callam thought, only to have his thoughts interrupted when Arlie shouted, ¡°Circle round!¡± He was about to comply, when a shadow swept across the sands.


    ¡°Well¡­ if it isn''t the stranger from the stands¡­¡± a muffled voice behind him said, stopping every few seconds to chew. ¡°Left the cuffs at home?¡±


    -------------------------------------


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    We made it to the tower!!! <3. I''m SO HAPPY. As always, I go down to once a week posting the week after an arc (or mini arc) ends to give myself time to plot out the new arc, so next posting will be Friday. This also gives me time to stack up the patreon, which needs some love.


    Personal thank yous to Daphne and Mozgoved for some awesome developmental insights. Critique is helpful and welcome :). I''m new to this and could never do it without you guys.


    I''ve got the new images of what Callam''s spellbook in the post-chapter notes! If any of you are photo shop experts that can help me put text on this file, let me know. Otherwise I''ll work on it on my own! (and happy to pay of course).


    Lastly, if you haven''t left a review, they really do help <3

 Chapter Thirty-Two: Old Faces, New Friends

    ¡°No feather blown across the world is named ¡®magic.¡¯


    We blame the wind and move about our day.


    Yet when we read a thing and it becomes a truth,


    We brand it sorcery and give it power too.


    All things equal, the chances of such things are about as likely,


    But the one that¡¯s commonplace we try not to explain,


    And the rarity we excuse.¡±


    ~~ High Scholar Vorvor, on the Science of Scripture


    <hr>


    There was something about Moose that made him loom large in Callam¡¯s memory. It might have been the tenor of his voice, already grating like rocks when other boys still suffered the occasional crack or whistle. Or it could have been his cavernous mouth, constantly occupied with words or with food. Perhaps, even, it was his balding head, so high up Callam had to tilt his head to see it.


    By all accounts, the boy seemed more mountain than man. And, like most explorers, Callam sought what lay on the other side of the peaks: Lenora. Stepping out from behind Moose¡¯s enormous frame, she waved an eager hello. Her blue eyes glittered in the sunlight as she adopted a serious tone.


    ¡°Far from the chapel aren¡¯t you, tomebound?¡±


    Callam grinned back. To his credit, he did feel a little silly doing so. He¡¯d had time to think about her after Binding Day and had realized he had too few friends to allow himself some schoolboy¡¯s crush. Certainly, Siela would never have tolerated such foolishness from him¡ªshe¡¯d hated when tavernboys had feigned friendship just for a chance at her hand.


    Still, he was looking forward to getting to know Lenora better, and it was nice to see two familiar faces¡ªit helped settle his stomach a bit. ¡°Well, you practically promised me I¡¯d make it here,¡± he pointed out.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean I believed it. Maybe I¡¯m just kind¡ªor a Seer?¡±


    ¡°Maybe both,¡± he said, and together they started to follow the crowd to the small cove where Arlie now stood. Clusters of palms framed the beach, their naked trunks dwarfed by the Tower and circled by the occasional seagull. Callam might have found the scene picturesque, had he not been so focused on avoiding an uncomfortable silence. Thankfully, Moose spoke up:


    ¡°So what¡¯s the truth, then?¡±


    ¡°...of?¡±


    ¡°Lenora wove tales of ink fiends and sorcery.¡± he said, then took a bite of the sandwich he¡¯d retrieved from his bag. Between mouthfuls, he continued, ¡°Told me¡­ you were nearly flattened by a tiny Broken. ¡®posedly the thing¡­ was drier than a nib. To let such a paltry deserter get in your way¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡­that¡¯s¡ªI did not!¡± Lenora yelped, spinning to face the larger boy. When he nearly choked on his food in laughter, she turned back to Callam, her cheeks coloring. ¡°Moose left early, so I told him how the largest Broken this side of legend attacked the dais soon after I¡¯d bound. I¡¯ve still no clue how you¡­¡±


    ¡°... how I survived?¡± Callam asked when she trailed off. They¡¯d almost reached Arlie now, so he wasn¡¯t quite sure if Lenora had dropped the thread to pay attention to her, or to be polite. He was just thankful he sounded less flustered than the last time they¡¯d met.


    ¡°That. Exactly that,¡± Moose took second to wipe his beard clean. ¡°Nora can be pretty direct ¡®round personal matters. Filthy Freemen upbring and all¡ª¡±


    Whatever he¡¯d intended to say next was drowned out by a transparent bubble that quickly covered the majority of the nearby beach. It was a good thing too¡ªby the looks of it, Lenora was about to show Moose exactly which filthy words a Freeman knew. Seconds later, Arlie¡¯s magnified voice said, ¡°Welcome to the unlit Lighthouse! Before we enter, there are a few things to remember. First, magic is not to be cast on Tower grounds unless monitored by a Scriptor. All spells loosed here will attract the neighboring beasts, and we¡¯d hate it if you drove off the few barkeeps brave enough to settle these shores. Second, and this is vital. Climbs must be accompanied by a proctor until your second semester, even if the floor¡¯s level is lesser than your tome¡¯s star level.¡±


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    Several faces soured at that announcement, and Callam was certain he¡¯d have heard the nobles groan if not for the magic barrier currently muting their voices. Can¡¯t blame them, really. Creatures seldom soar as high as Tower climbers¡¯ dreams. He personally hoped to start scaling the floors immediately.


    ¡°Lastly,¡± Arlie said, ¡°I must remind you that Ruddites cannot tolerate the mana density inside the Tower. As such, they cannot pick up after you. Please remember that you are Seekers, not soilers, so try not to make a mess of our sanctuary.¡±


    An audible pop later, the beach filled with enough laughter for the birds to want to join in. Squawks still echoed off the stone and sand when the outline of a massive door began to burn its way down the Lighthouse''s facade, the sudden magic all but stealing Callam¡¯s breath. There was a weight to it that he couldn¡¯t describe; yet, judging by the gasps around him, others felt it too. Quickly, the spell on the stone solidified, the reddish glow of heated rock turning dark as strange symbols formed across its breadth. They looped and twisted, the craftsmanship in each line reminiscent of how text had appeared to him before he¡¯d bound.


    I wonder if¡ª


    Twin doors rumbled, drowning out his thoughts. At first the sound was tolerable, then it grew violent enough that the ground shook. Several students were caught unaware, forced to cup their ears or fight for footing. Not Callam though¡ªhe was far enough away to stay steady, and it would take more than a quake for him to tear his attention from the Tower.


    The doors began to slowly swing inwards. Gold light pierced the void between them, warm and inviting. Winds came next. They whipped along the sands in a fierce tempo that drummed against the shore. Callam''s heart beat like a bellow, even as he squinted to better see. He was overcome by an urgent need to climb¡ªto scale the Lighthouse¡¯s floors and be the very first to reach its summit. Instinctively, his eyes trailed the stories up, up, up, all the way to where the clouds obscured his view.


    What secrets do they keep there? he wondered. A small voice inside asked: Why is there always some greater magic out of my reach?


    Scriptors had once flown above him in a sky not dissimilar to this one. After seeing them, he¡¯d raced to the chapelward to beg the Sisters to teach him magic. They¡¯d pushed him to grow up instead¡ªorphans were as likely to bind as an unbound was to write, and the streets were no place for a na?ve child.


    Now, as Callam gazed upon the heavens, he felt that childlike longing again. This time, though, he would not confine his hopes to the constraints of reality. His rational mind knew the Seeker¡¯s Tower took lives¡ªthousands had failed to climb it before him, and thousands were likely to try after him.


    Those odds mattered little.


    He¡¯d reach the Lighthouse¡¯s top first. There, he¡¯d light its beacon and secure humanity¡¯s victory over the beasts. Impossible things did happen; his Seedling was proof enough of that. And what were men but boys who¡¯ve learned they¡¯ll never touch the stars?


    "¡­Always a sight," Moose said, drawing Callam back to the present. Around them, several others seemed to be exiting similar reveries, mouths hanging open like choir members mid song. Lenora, for one, kept her gaze fixed on the Lighthouse¡¯s summit. She clutched her grimoire against her chest, and her bright lips moved wordlessly.


    But not all tomebound were so bewitched. Like Moose, plenty of the older-looking students had kept their bearings¡ªa quiet reminder that only some of those congregated here were first-years. At least a few had seen this all before and had simply shown up to accompany friends or siblings.


    Positioning herself between the group and the Tower¡¯s open doors, Arlie shouted, ¡°Tomebound, I¡¯m jealous! For most of you here, that was your first Scripting. As you progress through the Tower, your spellbook will learn more of your heart¡¯s desires, and use these insights to customize chapters to your needs. Cherish the experience, for it might be months before you have another.¡±


    With that, she tipped her yellow hat, giving an excuse about the other Seekers she had to greet today. She did stay around long enough for Callam to enter the Lighthouse¡ªwhich didn¡¯t take too long at all, given that he, Moose, and Lenora rushed the stone doors as one.


    In that moment, they felt that neither the Prophet nor his Poet could have stood in their way.

 Chapter Thirty-Three: A New World (First Floor of the Tower)

    ¡°I remember that day.


    We thought ourselves grown. Scriptors in the bodies of Seekers.


    We loved our classes, raced up the Lighthouse¡¯s floors in between them.


    The weather was good then. We did not yet know we¡¯d abandoned the Djinn.


    The clouds were sails in the skies, and our dreams steered the ships.¡±


    ~~the Fourth Poet, reflecting on her ascension


    Over the years, Callam had learned many things about the Tower. The Sisters had taught him the scripture and history: the why behind it all. Taverngoers had prepared him for the traps and monsters, spinning stories of deadly beasts and dangerous mana constructs. Bardsong had immortalized the magic.


    Not one of them had mentioned that the gateway¡¯s light tickled. Really tickled.


    The playful light had washed over him as soon as he¡¯d stepped inside the Tower. At first it had swirled along his arms and between his toes, more curious than a teething pup. Now, it was prodding the base of his nose¡ªhe might have found it endearing had he not been struggling so hard not to laugh. Another tingle and his muscles tensed involuntarily. Helplessly, he searched for Lenora and Moose, only to find they too were stuck in this in between. She, at least, looked as uncomfortable as he felt, her face pinched and body tense. Moose seemed only mildly bothered.


    How? Callam thought. Seconds later, words shot through his mind¡¯s eye.


    A beacon¡¯s role is not to lead,


    But to guide the daring to distant shores,


    And bridge the truths between two worlds.


    Ascend these floors, unearth these roots,


    Where knowledge dwells and wisdom blooms,


    Callam Quill, of Chapelhill,


    Brave the tides with a Seeker¡¯s will.


    Twice he reread the poem, his heart thundering. Then the letters faded, replaced by blindingly bright colors and vibrant sounds.


    He was through.


    Birdsong teased his ears and sunlight warmed his neck as he tried to adjust to the new surroundings¡ªlarge spots still dotted his vision when a breeze brought about the smell of nearby grasslands. Fresh, and slightly sweet, the meadow¡¯s scent was unlike any of the hayfields he¡¯d rolled in back home. Unlike any of the hills the Sisters had hiked him up, to sit atop and have Sunday lunch.


    Happy tears threatened his cheeks. For orphans, strong emotions proved dangerous, so he¡¯d learned not to show his. Yet at that moment, a small smile known only by the truly grateful touched his lips.


    Sis, his heart shouted. I made it!


    At that moment, nothing else in the world mattered. His eyesight cleared, and he gazed upon the first floor¡¯s prairies, savoring his success. He lost himself to a deep sense of joy tinged by bittersweet sadness. Instinctively, he held his bookbag close and raised the Seedling¡¯s scar to his chest.


    Siela deserved to see what he now saw.


    All around him, sprawling hills rolled up and down for leagues, drowning the landscape in gold. A castle stood proudly in the distance, its stone ramparts and spires weathered with age. Giant grass reached his midriff or higher, far taller than any flora he¡¯d ever seen. Here and there grew the occasional tree, and these too were huge, each trunk rivaling the largest hearthwoods stacked along Port Cardica¡¯s skid row. Even the clouds were colossal; he ducked when a shadow passed overhead, only to spot an empire of white, complete with peaks and billows a child would have dreamed of flying through. The only reminders he was still inside the Tower came in the shape of a spiral staircase centered in the middle of a still lake, and in faint walls, barely discernible in the far stretches of his vision.


    Simply put¡­ it was magical.


    Callam took it all in, spellbound, then drew a few slow breaths to center himself. Once he had, he scanned the grasslands for Lenora and Moose, then quickly realized he was alone. Not for long though¡ªa shimmer in the clearing and a string of swear words soon heralded their arrival.


    ¡°Folly and f-fire!¡± Lenora said with a shudder, her hands already working to rub away the itch. Locks of her chestnut hair fell out of place as she leaned over to straighten the hem of her green dress. ¡°I¡¯d rather dance naked than be touched like that again.¡±


    Only when she stood up did she seem to remember that she wasn¡¯t alone. An adorable blush graced her face, and Callam did his best not to stare¡ªor to think of her dancing at all. Moose, it seemed, held no such reservations. ¡°Aye, I¡¯d rather you did too,¡± he said. ¡°Such a sight might scare off that dreadful light.¡±


    Callam swallowed a snort, still unused to such familiar banter among non-siblings. His rushed ¡°sorry¡± did little to appease Lenora, whose blue eyes had turned to ice at his reaction. Thankfully, her expression soon softened; she fixed her hair, flashed him a sly smile, and took him by the arm.


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    ¡°Come on. Better I socialize with a brute than attempt to domesticate a Moose,¡± she whispered, none too quietly.


    Callam grumbled¡ªthough he wasn¡¯t really complaining¡ªhe felt lucky to be included in their friendship. And he was more than happy to let her lead him down the small brick path to the rest of the tomebound. Several were already congregating at the foot of the hill to await further instruction¡ªit seemed the Tower had dropped climbers off semi-randomly.


    ¡°Welcome! Welcome!¡± called out a handsome Scriptor once they¡¯d all reached the dip in the meadow. Young, with bone-white hair and a narrow jaw, he carried himself with the confidence of a street performer. A paperfowl was perched on one shoulder, and a lute stuck out from behind his back. Two trees behind him shaded his pale skin. From the smiles and giggles, Callam guessed the man would be asked to play a song before the night''s end.


    ¡°I¡¯m Scriptor Rote and I¡¯ve many things to teach you. But first, all Seekers must learn to always have their tomes at the ready, lest they fall victim to attack.¡± With a flourish, he dipped a hand into a pocket of his vest and fished out a sapphire spellbook.


    At the words, many hands scrambled to do as instructed, loosening straps and undoing buttons. Callam joined in but noticed that not all did¡ªMoose, for instance, stayed still.


    If the teacher noticed, he didn¡¯t care. With an approving nod to the group, he continued: ¡°Already this year¡¯s crop looks better than the last. Now, the second thing you must learn is that magic, like all things in the Lighthouse, is equal parts real and mirage. Revila Prohibitum ante me!¡± he incanted, and magic burst forth from his grimoire.


    Wherever the spell touched, grasses began to sprout, turning from tepid greens to blooming wildflowers. Then, just as quickly as they had emerged, the plants died, their husks wilting away to reveal dozens of thin roots underfoot. Exposed to the light, the roots proved themselves more than wood. They recoiled, slithering back into the hillside like snakes seeking winter dens. Shrieks and creaks accompanied them, some from students caught unaware, others from the retreating beasts.


    ¡°Those, tomebound, are Prairieplights. They love to nest by trees. While completely harmless during the day, they are worse than a grimtale at night. Best you keep to the castle after hours, aye?¡±


    Callam wasn¡¯t so sure he¡¯d need to do that. Compared to an Oceanstrider or Broken, this monster seemed practically docile¡ªmany of the older students were looking at it as if it were some showman¡¯s trinket. But he wasn¡¯t about to argue with a Scriptor on his first day, so he instead focused on mouthing the syllables to Rote¡¯s spell, feeling the stresses on his tongue.


    Iambic pentameter. Just as he¡¯d thought.


    ¡°Now, who among you can translate my words? As Seekers, your minds are primed to understand language¡ªand with your eyes, you can see my spell''s effect. It shouldn¡¯t take too long for one of you to decipher the meaning. Call on me once you¡­ yes?¡± he asked, noticing Callam¡¯s raised hand.


    ¡°Reveal the forbidden before me,¡± he said. Rarely had he ever been the first called upon.


    ¡°Ah, a linguist in our midst. What are you? A three-star specialist?¡±


    Callam, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him, struggled to find his words. Oh he had plenty to say, but it seemed his Seedling¡¯s gift might involve language after all. What if he¡¯d accidentally revealed more of its powers than he¡¯d intended?


    ¡°He¡¯s four-starred,¡± Lenora¡¯s playful voice said, coming to his rescue. ¡°And tongue-tied.¡±


    ¡°Must be a natural, then. As you¡¯ve all certainly been taught, it takes longer for those with powerful tomes to write their stories,¡± Rote said, pulling a scrivener¡¯s tablet and a quill from another of his many pockets. ¡°On top of that, greater length leaves more space for mistakes. So, on average, lower-starred Seekers have the early advantage in spellcasting and translation. Can any of you recite the spellcaster¡¯s stanzas?¡±


    This time, many more hands rose. And, after taking a moment to sit on the ground, the Scriptor called on them all. A few highborn brows shot up at Rote¡¯s nonchalance, but the man did not seem to mind. Slipping into Reldar¡ªthe commoner-tongue¡ªhe patted the shaded grass next to him and said, ¡°Join me, before the sun sails overhead. We''ve some time before today¡¯s second-years arrive, and we¡¯d best spend it comfortably.¡±


    Whatever scorn the nobles had displayed doubled when they heard the peasant dialect. Airster openly frowned¡ªhe¡¯d been floating around Zallorin¡¯s group, and both boys met Rote¡¯s suggestion with the air of sailors forced to stay sober.


    Callam nearly laughed. He did not mind the idea of resting his legs at all. If anything, the informality of it all made him like their new teacher more.


    Best I don¡¯t jump to conclusions, he reminded himself as he followed Lenora into the shade. He is a Scriptor after all. Everyone knew that the higher one climbed, the easier it was for them to look down. Airlie had already broken that mold¡ªthe odds of him meeting two mages in a day who truly did not care for tradition was low.


    More tomebound soon sat next to them. Familiarity bred comfort, and within minutes many questions were being asked.


    ¡°Are all the floors this¡­ large?¡± asked a bulky boy. It was a silly inquiry¡ªthey all knew the answer. Yet Callam understood the impulse. He too struggled to believe his eyes.


    ¡°They get smaller as you climb. Think of the Lighthouse as a pyramid. Only its walls are straight instead of slanted.¡±


    ¡°Can we improve our star-levels?¡± one plump girl blurted out before silence could fall. She¡¯d sat down across the way, her small fingers tightly grasping a two-star grimoire.


    ¡°Only simpletons believe in a hard no.¡± Rote said, softly stroking his paperfowl¡¯s beak. ¡°Exceptions always prove the rule.¡±


    ¡°What of Scripted grimoires?¡± a noble close to Airster spoke up. He¡¯d not deigned to sit down, so shadows from the leaves above him played patterns across his face.


    ¡°What of them?¡±


    ¡°Are they also¡­


    Callam slowly tuned the group out. Turning to Lenora, he whispered, "Thanks for saving me back there.¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± she said sweetly. ¡°Now, tell me how you knew that!¡±


    ~~~


    Quick note! I''m at dragoncon, wearing a tomebound t-shirt. First three people who find me will get a signed specialty copy of Tomebound at release. Goodluck :)

 Chapter Thirty-Four: Classes and Casting

    <h3 style="text-align: center">¡°Gods sow salt in the minds of men.


    Prophets till the barren fields.¡±


    ~~Final words of Takal, Port Cardica¡¯s last living atheist


    <hr>


    "Hmmm?" Despite his years of quick thinking, Callam found himself flatfooted. To buy himself more time, he asked, ¡°How did I do what?¡±


    Lenora was having none of it. "Don''t act the lackwit. Doesn¡¯t look good on you, and wouldn¡¯t force a fold from a fool holding twos.¡±


    ¡°Or one holding aces, if you play men¡¯s games.¡± Moose had somehow snuck up behind them, and for once he wasn¡¯t eating. His voice was also surprisingly quiet, and only traveled far enough for them to hear¡ªa good thing, given over twenty tomebound were seated within earshot.


    Callam still did not know what to say. On the one hand, the stanzas preached against all deception. ¡°Secrets are the swords of the mind,¡± they warned. No one needed telling that commoners were not to be armed.


    Siela, on the other hand, had disagreed. ¡°Secrets are our soldiers to command,¡± she¡¯d told him. ¡°And lies are the shields we wield.¡±


    ¡°... so?¡± Lenora pried, pulling Callam back to the present. Excitement shone in her eyes.


    ¡°I¡ªI think it''s got something to do with my first spell,¡± he whispered, hoping his tone would be convincing. An unexpected pang of guilt clawed at his chest; after years alone, he¡¯d forgotten the pain of lying to a friend.


    Thankfully, he was soon distracted by the melodious trill of Rote¡¯s paperfowl. It hopped twice on the man¡¯s shoulder, then cooed gently into his ear.


    ¡°Excellent¡­ excellent. It seems today¡¯s first group of second-years is arriving at last,¡± the Scriptor announced once the construct finished its song. He rose from where he¡¯d been sitting cross-legged, and pointed to a far off hill. ¡°Here they come down now¡ªlate as usual. Can¡¯t say I blame them, really. School¡¯s a boar you cannot eat.¡±


    A few awkward chuckles met the joke, with Moose alone laughing loudly. Moments later, dozens of students crested the grasslands, many using spells or abilities to speed up their movement. Callam saw a boy use branches that grew from his legs to extend his stride, a girl who dove through the prairie as if she were swimming on land, and a pair of tomebound that chased after her, traveling ten or more feet with each jump.


    He instantly wished to learn all those spells.


    If Lenora held similar ambitions, she kept them to herself. Instead, she leaned in and whispered, ¡°So¡­ your first spell pertains to translation? Mine¡¯s a simple fire charm¡­¡± Her warm breath hinted at how close she was and Callam suddenly found himself very focused on the second-years ahead.


    Eventually, he managed to say, ¡°Believe so. It¡¯s not quite clear¡ª¡±


    ¡°Perfect!¡± Lenora cut in, and he could hear a sly tinge in her voice. ¡°Then you won¡¯t mind showing me how it works later?¡±


    Callam¡¯s pulse quickened; Poet¡¯s hand, but he¡¯d walked right into that one. He¡¯d have to think of some convincing excuse for his magic to fail, otherwise he¡¯d confirm whatever suspicions she clearly held.


    A shift in the breeze announced the first of the second-years to arrive. The young woman was thin as a reed, with large, dark eyes and perfectly straight black hair. Three stars branded the ruby grimoire she¡¯d lashed to her leg, and plants masked the sound of her steps. Most unusual of all were her hands¡ªwhere her body was wiry, her fingers were long, delicate, and sharp.


    ¡°What is written, Seeker Quellhart?¡± Rote called out. When she didn¡¯t respond, he continued, ¡°Ever the speedy one, I see. You¡¯re getting good at stealth too. Everyone, Tilla here specializes in clandestine spellwork and is head of her class. If you¡¯ve questions about subterfuge, don''t bother me¡ªgo to her. She loves good conversation.¡±


    Tilla¡¯s stare revealed the lie for what it was. Yet murmurs of recognition still followed her introduction¡ªand a chill bit Callam¡¯s skin when she glanced his way. Hers was a brand of magic infamous for its lethality and lucrativeness, and he¡¯d seen warmer eyes among Docks End¡¯s most dangerous patrons. The expression on her face was equally cold and calculating, fitting of a mage intent on collecting scripted grimoires.


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    I¡¯d better tread carefully, he realized with a jolt. Seasoned sellswords were said to have less work than novice quellers. Four-star tomes are always in demand.


    It was an important reminder, and he was thankful for it. He might have felt safe now, but between the Elders¡¯ machinations and the Tower¡¯s mana beasts, he was not. Worse, once he progressed his spellbook, quellers were sure to come hunting. That grimtales of their exploits had reached orphan ears spoke volumes of their infamy¡ªassassinations were jobs best done quietly.


    Unwilling to betray fear in front of Moose and Lenora, Callam steeled himself and met Tilla¡¯s cold eyes.


    She did not seem to notice, turning instead to face the rest of her class as they streamed by. Many nodded their heads in respect, yet few stayed behind. The majority raced directly through the trees and underbrush to the stone castle in the distance.


    Not all though. Two brothers dressed in blue linens paused on an outcropping of stone no more than fifty feet away. The first of them bellowed, ¡°Oy, Moose, ¡®nough dawdling with the children. We¡¯ve spells to cast and oats to sow! Maybe we¡¯ll find you a cute Tower sprite this year!¡±


    ¡°Or a boulder,¡± the second called out. ¡°Some ink on the face¡­ a heap of moss for the dress. Best not to be picky, you know!¡±


    Snickers filled the clearing, Rote¡¯s musical voice loudest among them. The giant only frowned, stretching out his shoulders as if to remind the first-years exactly who they were making fun of. When no one stopped, he grumpily gathered his Seeker¡¯s pouch and said, ¡°I¡¯ll be off. Find me in the commissary later, will you?¡±


    ¡°Will do!¡± Lenora said cheerfully, though Callam noticed her face fell a bit as she watched Moose go. A second later she seemed to catch herself, and teased, ¡°If you¡¯re late, we won¡¯t wait up!¡±


    In the end, only three second-years remained with Callam¡¯s class: Tilla, Dweyd, and Raya, proficient in offensive casting, guardian sorcery, and realm magic, respectively. Rote explained that a fourth specialist focused on healing would be arriving later in the week.


    ¡°Your studies this year will be more¡­ unusual than you might expect,¡± he said once everyone had introduced themselves. Bitterness colored his tone. ¡°The situation on the front lines has grown dire, so the Elders have decided our efforts are better spent manning the walls than delving the Tower¡¯s secrets. This¡­¡± he waved to the upperclassman, ¡°is our compromise. You will share teachers with more advanced students scaling the Lighthouse. The top specialists amongst each year will, in turn, assume the role of tutors and proctors for the younger tomebound.¡±


    If Rote had expected complaints, he received almost none. Callam, for one, took the news in stride¡ªhe had nothing to compare it with and was just happy to learn the Elders¡¯ attentions might be elsewhere. Lenora gave the smallest of nods and bit her lip¡ªclearly she was eager to skip the pleasantries and get started. The nobles mostly kept quiet, though Zallorin appeared smug, as if everyone had been finally let in on a secret he¡¯d known all along.


    Airster alone seemed annoyed, his complexion shifting from pale pink to flushed red. ¡°So we¡¯re to accept a poorer education than our parents received?¡±


    ¡°And pass word of it down to any Seekers who might have missed the missive, yes. First-years will be arriving throughout the week, and shorthanded as we are, some things are certain to get lost in the shuffle.¡± Glancing up at the floor''s sun, he added, ¡°Best we don¡¯t dally further. You all should have unlocked prologues by now, and if you haven¡¯t all received your first chapters by nightfall, the Elders will have my lute. Grimoires at the ready, please.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Again!¡± Rote shouted. Callam obeyed¡ªfor the fifth time in as few hours, he circled the clearing, trying desperately to avoid the Prairieplight¡¯s roots. Sweat slicked his neck and ran down the bridge of his nose. One misstep later, three of the beast¡¯s tendrils shot upwards, breaking through the earth. They clipped his left sandal, ripping it free.


    Harmless in daylight, all right.


    Crow¡¯s foot, he¡¯d been wrong to consider this species weaker than the Oceanstriders. He¡¯d forgotten that on the skiff, he¡¯d had the advantage of numbers. Same with the Broken, too. Thousands had filled the stands during that battle, distracting that beast.


    Here, the light-averse Prarieplight had a single goal: strangling him. Its fibrous length creaked and moaned, hungry yet unwilling to leave the safety of the cloud cover to chase the Seekers standing outside the shadow¡¯s edge. Within seconds, more of its wooden fingers rose from the earth¡ªthey climbed up Callam¡¯s leg and brought the smell of fresh-turned dirt to his nose.


    Memories of Siela¡¯s graveyard and of the Writ¡¯s garden flashed through his mind.


    He stamped down with his remaining shoe, breaking the briars underfoot. Then he dashed forward between three roots that had flared up in the clearing. One latched onto his neck, and the grip of a hangman¡¯s noose threatened to overwhelm him.


    ¡°Excellent effort!¡± Rote shouted. ¡°Feel the mana around you! Sense it in the world and draw it into your book! When your tome warms up, you will know you are there!¡±


    Callam struggled to breathe. He felt nothing other than rough fibers against skin and dozens of splinters along his arms and legs. His fingers went white as he tried to pry the wood from his throat.


    Stars swam before his eyes.


    Earlier, the Scriptor had explained that danger was paramount to quick learning. Tomes, he¡¯d said, collected life experiences and turned them into chapters. Chapters, in turn, shared spells based on those common experiences and themes, helping Scriptors learn communally.


    Why only Callam¡¯s spellbook had failed to manifest a chapter over the past four hours, Rote had had no idea. So he¡¯d simply found a new Prairieplight and had forced Callam to evade the beast again. And again. Lenora alone had looked worried.


    Everyone else had laughed or pointed.

 Chapter Thirty-Five: The Hero鈥檚 Journey

    Those with power are often burdened with questions of ¡°why?¡±


    Yet we do not ask the Ruddite why he reaps the field,


    Or the mason why he lays stone.


    Privilege and power are natural to the Prophet.


    Do not assume he needs a reason for his ruin.


    ~~Absol, high priest of Port Cardica


    <hr>


    Why isn¡¯t this working? Callam thought as he desperately tried to break the hold on his neck. When fighting the Oceanstriders, inspiration had struck. He¡¯d been able to sense the mana around him and turn it into something actionable.


    Now, that magic had abandoned him. He¡¯d watched the rest of the Seekers unlock their first chapter quickly: the Journey of Dawn and Dusk. Lenora had even started glowing during her attempt, hinting that she had learned the first spell within the path.


    Only he had failed.


    After every attempt, his grimoire had remained cold to the touch. His Seedling had stayed equally dormant. He was no more a mage than an animal caught in a snare, the Prairieplight¡¯s wood taut against his pull.


    Move! his instincts shouted. He jerked his feet to the left just before a knot of roots erupted from the ground, missing his toes by inches. Yet it was a hollow victory¡ªCallam was still being put through his paces. Pressure mounted around his airway as he struggled for footing.


    ¡°Innovate, Callam! To muster magic is to be creative!¡± Rote yelled.


    Mind fogging, Callam did his best to comply. He played dead, going limp for a few seconds, then fought with everything he had to break free.


    All he achieved was to jostle his bookbag and lose more air. The Prairieplight was not so easily fooled.


    Salivating in anticipation, the beast released a foul sap from its fibers. The smell was putrid¡ªacrid enough to sear the nose. Callam would have gagged had his throat not gone stiff. All sap-exposed skin had suddenly solidified.


    Where before he¡¯d managed to wheeze, now he couldn¡¯t breathe at all¡­


    He panicked.


    In seconds, Rote was sure to step in and clear the skies as he¡¯d done several times already. Callam¡¯s knew this, yet his chest still heaved. He¡¯d handled the lashes from the Prairieplight¡¯s roots easily enough, having suffered worse at the hands of the Sisters¡¯ reeds. The resin the beast had doused him in though?


    Terror-inducing.


    He was a fly trapped in amber, on display before his peers.


    ¡°Think, Callam!¡± Lenora¡¯s voice cut through his hazy thoughts. Worry tinged the words. He could not see her¡ªthe edges of his vision were beyond blurry¡ªbut she lent him strength.


    ¡°Quiet, tomebound!¡± Rote snapped at her. ¡°Coddled fowl do not learn to fl¡ª¡±


    Callam did not catch what the Scriptor said next. Blood pounded in his ears, and trapped air burned his lungs. The beast, sensing victory, doubled its efforts. It yanked at Callam¡¯s throat, intent on sending him skyward. He resisted with everything he had, throwing his weight down.


    Fear of failure gripped his chest.


    Four times now he¡¯d lost consciousness, only to be roused by Rote¡¯s healing magic, then thrown back in with the monster. Each time the surrounding prairie had lost some of its tranquil touch. The winds no longer seemed serene. They tossed the grass, swaying it with the force of their will. Sunlight torched the pastures. It turned stems to straw that birds fed upon.


    How do the flocks survive? The realization bubbled to the surface, demanding his focus. There was something there¡ªa hint of understanding as faint as a game trail.


    He only had to stay awake long enough to traverse it.


    With a colossal effort, Callam dug his toes into the ground, pushing for the outer circle where the sunlight shone brightest. Roots creaked in protest, brambles bit his skin, yet the thicket did not give. He was well and truly stuck.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Worse, he¡¯d used up the last of his air. Darkness overtook him.


    A chill breeze brushed through Callam¡¯s hair when he awoke. River water drenched him a moment later, and he sputtered out a mouthful.


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Rote said, inspecting him with twinkling eyes. Airster and Zallorin¡¯s faces betrayed a more scornful amusement. ¡°I¡¯d say that went better, but¡­¡± He clapped his hands. ¡°No worries. Nothing I haven¡¯t seen before. Where the quick are witty, the slow are steady. A good teacher educates both.¡±


    Callam said nothing. He wiped his mouth clean and struggled to his feet. A steading step later, he made for the nearest clearing shrouded in cloud cover. Daylight was fading fast and he refused to be the only tomebound without an unlocked chapter tomorrow¡ªeven if it meant wrestling the Prairieplight while still damp.


    ¡°Stand tall where others falter,¡± his sister had said. Sometimes that required never giving up.


    The absence of rustling grass behind him made it apparent that no one was following. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we¡¯re out of time, Callam,¡± Rote¡¯s voice carried to him in the wind. ¡°It¡¯s almost dusk, and then the beasts will be out in full force. I¡¯ll struggle to protect you. Best we can do is¡ª¡±


    ¡°One more go,¡± he shouted back. Instinct told him that Rote was the type of teacher who valued stubbornness. Hopefully, he was right¡ªelse he was about to be in all sorts of trouble.


    Clasping his bookbag to his side, Callam stepped into the cloud cover.


    Creaking and groaning louder than any he¡¯d heard all day echoed upwards from the plains. The grassland around him began to buck and heave as roots writhed underfoot. Small manabirds flew for the skies, and rodents hopped away in fear.


    Any second now¡­ This was his sixth attempt, so he knew what to expect.


    Coils of wood spun up all around him. Gnarled and knotted, they teetered back and forth like a tumbleweed in a storm. Then, they whistled toward their meal, a whirlwind of movement far faster than he¡¯d expected.


    Callam sprinted until his calves burned, racing for the edge of the clearing, the roots like snakes at his heels. Only when he was confident of his lead did he dare look over his shoulder in search of the magic he¡¯d felt earlier.


    There!


    A thread of light danced from the beast to his grimoire. It leapt from root tip to root tip, highlighting a pattern to the beast¡¯s movements he had missed during his other attempts. Relief flooded his chest. The roots did not beeline for him; instead they aimed for where he had just been, or where they predicted he would be next. They struggled to guess his exact position.


    Tremors in the ground? It would explain the beast¡¯s lack of precision, and why the birds could eat here freely, though it didn¡¯t address how the rodents survived nightfall. Still, it was something he could test, and he was so tired of being on the back foot. After skidding through a patch of dirt, he leaned over just far enough to pick up a stone and dodge under a web of roots.


    A second later, Callam released the rock. One skip, two, and it landed untouched.


    Tracks more than just movement, then. Perhaps heat? The moonheart constructs he¡¯d faced at the Writ¡¯s manor had tracked intruders by warmth. If these beasts worked similarly, then the local wildlife likely hibernated in the dark to avoid discovery.


    Logically it made sense.


    Unfortunately, he was breathing hard. Sweat drenched his clothes, and he didn¡¯t have any mulch to lower his body temperature this time. Surviving long enough to make it to the lake at the bottom of the hill didn¡¯t appear likely either.


    He only had one option left to cool himself. ¡°Infer Intus,¡± he gasped, ¡°Ater, Infer Intus!¡± He had no real confidence it would work.


    A wave of cold washed over him, its current pulling him to the depths of the abyss. Magic flooded in next, shocking his extremities as if he¡¯d placed his frostbitten hands before a flame. Starlight flickered inside the root closest to him, then it snapped. Another crack of wood, and he knew his spell had snuffed out a root farther away.


    Five more broke before his knees gave way. He shivered, cold to the bone, surrounded by brittle wood as the sun crept below the horizon.


    Hopefully, I¡¯m right about my assump¡ª


    Hundreds of roots tackled him before he finished the thought.


    ~~~


    ¡°Well, Quill, that beating ought to have built up quite the appetite,¡± Rote said after dumping another river¡¯s worth of water on Callam¡¯s head. ¡°Shall we make for the castle¡¯s commissary now, or would you rather try to die again?¡± He stretched out a hand, his teeth sparkling in the light of the lantern two second-years held overhead.


    ¡°Sir¡­¡± Callam asked, massaging his sore temples before accepting the hand up. His head pounded from the backlash of his spell, his skin was white from the cold, and he¡¯d guessed wrong about the Prairieplight, yet he was thrilled. Warmth spread from the bookbag at his back, a sure sign as any that he¡¯d progressed his grimoire. ¡°Why don¡¯t the Prairieplights eat the Tower animals?¡±


    Smile lines aged Rote¡¯s face. ¡°Isn¡¯t that a clever question? Why indeed? First-years,¡± he said, turning to face the rest of the Seekers, many of whom looked bored and hungry, ¡°It seems Callam has found his spark of inspiration at last, even if the chapter he unlocked wasn¡¯t the lesson I¡¯d penned for today. Before he checks his spellbook for hints, any guesses?¡±

 Chapter Thirty-Six: A Proper Feast

    A stolen Verse carries on the wind.


    Do not sing it. Commit no sin.


    A Broken heart bears no ink,


    It cannot rise or spread its wings.


    Lore is what becomes of myth,


    When djinn are caught,


    And set adrift.


    A Manarji wishtale, passed from father to son.


    <hr>


    ¡°... because they aren¡¯t worth the effort?¡± answered a young woman standing near Zallorian, hand raised. She was pretty, with dark eyes and a green dress that hugged her shoulders, and was one of few to actually ponder Callam¡¯s question.


    ¡°Right you are, Celsa!¡± Rote said, leading the group down the hills and through a crop of trees shrouding the castle. He walked with his grimoire held out in one hand, and radiant light poured from its pages. ¡°But that begs a greater question: why aren¡¯t they worth the chase? Enough crumbs will satiate even the largest¡­¡±


    Callam half-listened, hit by a wave of exhaustion that made concentrating on more than what was in front of him difficult. Taking a steadying step, he looked ahead to the battlements and parapets poking out from behind the tree line. The castle looked beautiful at this hour, lit by hundreds of lanterns and guarded by massive statues of the Prophet and his Poet. Imposing and arcane, their presences exuded magic. Promised command over it. Even the shadows seemed to obey them, creasing their marble faces and bringing the stone to life in a trick of the light.


    What treasures do they watch over? he couldn¡¯t help but wonder. A part of him, that small, child-like voice nestled within all adult hearts, asked: Will I learn to fly inside those walls?


    Not so many years ago, he¡¯d traded stolen pennies for wishtales of adventurers casting grand magics. He¡¯d treasured those stories¡ªrepeated them to the point of memorization, and used them to keep his spirits high on the darkest nights.


    Now, as he watched the castle¡¯s flag flap in the breeze, he felt a second-wind. The draft rustled the nearby trees, bringing along the earthy scent of smoke¡ªthe smell of home. Somewhere in that castle was a warm room with a big fireplace where he could open his grimoire away from prying eyes. Flickers of heat still spread from his bookbag, reminding him that his first chapter remained unread.


    That his story was about to begin.


    His fingers itched to open his grimoire again¡ªhe would have done so already if Rote had allowed it. The Scriptor had made clear that any further dallying could lead to serious danger.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious?¡± Airster¡¯s haughty voice traveled with practiced ease. It sounded as if he thought the majority of them dimmer than burnt-out wicks. ¡°Tower monsters don¡¯t carry natural mana. It is alien to them. They sense it around you, and track it like blind beasts to a beacon. Haven¡¯t any of you picked up a book since your binding?¡±


    Tilla Quellheart nodded subtly at his words.


    ¡°What I think our prestigious Firegale means,¡± Rote said, shouldering a branch out of his way, ¡°is that Tower beasts crave human mana. Think of everything in here as a construct without a maker. They cannot leave unless they have a corporeal connection¡ªand that requires mana from the outside world.¡± Nudging the small paperfowl now snuggling within his cloak, he added, ¡°Felm here, for instance, is blood-bonded to me. Otherwise, her feathers would burn upon leaving the tower.¡±


    ¡°So¡­?¡± asked the chubby girl Callam had spotted earlier. She stepped down from a small boulder blocking the other, her breathing heavy. ¡°The¡­the beasts here will try to¡­ eat us so they can escape?¡±


    ¡°It does seem a bit gruesome when you put like that, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Rote said. He lifted his grimoire so they could better see in the twilight. ¡°But in essence, yes. Of course, not all animals have the same ambitions¡ªFelm just wants to cuddle and coo. I imagine most predators dream of leaving.¡±


    A tense silence met those words.


    After a while, Lenora spoke up. ¡°Have any of them successfully¡­ you know?¡± To others, the question might have sounded casual, yet Callam noticed a slight hesitation in her voice. Absentmindedly, she began to play with her hair.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°Certainly not from this lighthouse,¡± Rote replied. ¡°Some claim that the Winged One escaped from the Western Tower, forcing the prophets to light it first. Hearsay, in my opinion. Few stories of the Far Away can truly be trusted.¡±


    That thought was ridiculous enough to draw murmurs from the class¡ªthe very idea that anyone could believe the Winged One had escaped from a Lighthouse bordered on the heretical. She was a monster intent on invading the Towers, not leaving them. Scripture said it was so.


    Lenora alone frowned.


    For just a breath she furrowed her eyebrows and slowed her pace. Her delicate fingers no longer traced patterns along her hair, instead braiding the ends. So subtle was the change in her mannerisms, that Callam might have missed it had he not been sneaking occasional glances her way.


    Tomelight danced on her pale skin.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he whispered, happy for any excuse to walk to her side. After having learned of the Archive¡¯s Plight, he carried his own doubts about the sermon¡¯s teachings.


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± A light blush warmed her cheeks, and she pursed her lips. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind. ¡°Don¡¯t laugh. It¡¯s just¡­ what of the books¡­? I mean, they can leave the Tower, before they¡¯ve bonded. Can¡¯t they?¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°What of the books?¡± Lenora¡¯s words rang through Callam¡¯s head as the group finally reached the castle¡¯s outer gates. Green banners fluttered along the outer walls, each eerily similar to the ones he¡¯d seen on Binding Day.


    The two had walked the remaining distance in silence, both pondering her words. They were in strong contrast to the rest of the group¡ªthe class had become increasingly boisterous the closer they got to the castle, forcing Rote to shush them more than once. He seemed committed to spending every minute of the hike imparting something new: three times so far he¡¯d urged the class to observe various landmarks and their histories. Thankfully, he had not followed through on his threats to teach them via song if they didn¡¯t listen.


    It came as no surprise, then, when he stopped them right before the drawbridge. A chipper, ¡°Quick look to your left, if you¡¯d please¡­¡± was enough to draw their attention to the claw marks etched along the castle¡¯s balustrades. The walls were simply covered in them. ¡°Ms. Quellheart,¡± he prodded, ¡°tell them what they are seeing.¡±


    The second-year stayed quiet. Some gentle pecking from Felm later, she relented. ¡°Doubtless, you have learned enough to know that scaling the Tower requires slaughtering keepers and solving¡­ puzzles.¡± Her northern accent hitched on that final word. ¡°Not so on this floor. A fool and failure both can climb this story untested.¡±


    ¡°This floor¡¯s keeper prefers, instead, to protect the entrance to the Roots,¡± Rote added, making for the castle¡¯s iron gates. ¡°He¡¯s a fensphinx with claws the size of wagon wheels, a coat that¡¯s nigh impenetrable, and the foul temperament of a pampered house cat. It¡¯s true,¡± he said when many of them chuckled. ¡°Scratches up everything. Thankfully, he won¡¯t bother you unless directed to by the librarians. Or by me.¡±


    On another day, Callam would have joined in on the laughter. He¡¯d already planned on spending a lot of time in the Roots, and the idea that a beast of legend protected its entrance surpassed his wildest imaginations. That it was big enough to use the castle itself for a scratching post was simply¡­ extraordinary.


    Stories truly did not do the Lighthouse justice.


    Not tonight though¡ªtonight, Callam¡¯s mind was elsewhere. As he stepped onto the drawbridge, he couldn¡¯t help but feel that Lenora was right: it was strange that grimoires could fly from the Tower unbound.


    If they can leave, who¡¯s to say the beasts can¡¯t?


    With a creak and a shove, the wrought-iron gates swung open. Smells flooded out first: sweetbreads and meatpies tempted the mouth. He even caught a whiff of the port¡¯s less-palatable offerings¡ªstank suspiciously of fried seagull, and a sharp tang hinted at scouredwood beer, served only in the cheapest taverns.


    Laughter followed, coming from a thousand voices at once.


    The view came last, after he and Lenora had peeked over the rest of their gathered classmates. In front of them, a long hallway curved into the main hall, its arched ceilings lit by strings of floating candles that rose and fell like the spines of a grand dragon. Two murals were illuminated in their wake: one depicted a minstrel playing a tune, the other a beast in battle. Paper-fowl of all shapes and sizes soared through the corridor¡¯s many doorways, chasing and playing with each other. Occasionally, they would hide among the shields and crests adorning the upper walls. Dozens of students chatted beneath them, all looking much warmer and fuller than he felt.


    How they could hear each other over the roar of activity at the end of the hallway, Callam had no idea.


    ¡°Poet¡¯s hand¡­¡± someone swore behind him. He had to agree.


    His Seedling, his mother¡¯s plight, and the Tower''s secrets were all mysteries to be puzzled out, but¡­


    ¡­ they were mysteries he could work on tomorrow.


    Right now, he had a grimoire to read and food to eat. Better yet, unless he was completely mistaken, Moose and Lenora expected him for dinner.


    A smile broke across his lips. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d shared a meal with friends.


    ~~~ This chapter is dedicated to Duat. I''m so sorry for what your going through <3.

 Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Paupers First Chapter

    There were signs:


    Chapters leading us astray,


    Secrets he should not have kept,


    Too late I realized what they all meant.


    By then, though, the Seed had grown.


    And the boy I loved was forced,


    To shoulder the burdens of man.


    ~~Ramblings of the Fourth Poet


    <hr>


    ¡°Second-years, lead the way,¡± Rote shouted once they¡¯d all stepped inside. ¡°The feast awaits!¡± A cheer from the hungry class greeted his call.


    Callam, seeing an opportunity to sneak away, mouthed to Lenora, ¡°I¡¯ll be right back.¡±


    ¡°Dying to read that chapter, tomebound?¡± She wore a knowing smile, all of her earlier pensiveness gone. It seemed she too had decided to learn of the Tower¡¯s secrets another day.


    ¡°Something along those lines. How can I find yo¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask Moose to stand up. Should be easy enough to spot.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± He was glad for the plan; while he wasn¡¯t one to overthink, he had worried about making his new friends wait. It was hardly a rational fear, but what if they decided they preferred to talk to someone else?


    ¡°Don¡¯t take too long, mind you,¡± Lenora said, her blue eyes sparkling mischievously. ¡°Moose isn¡¯t the type to wait forever.¡±


    Callm froze. For a heart-skipping second, he was convinced she could read minds.


    ¡°He¡¯s bound to drag me off for a game of Seeker¡¯s Talent, now that I can play.¡± Leaning over, she whispered, ¡°Don¡¯t tell, but he always taps his fingers when he¡¯s got a good hand. I¡¯ll fleece him.¡±


    Oh. Girls.


    Siela had always known his tells too. Years spent masking his emotions, and she''d still been able to see right through him until the day she passed. He¡¯d given up playing cards with her long before that¡ªbut not before owing her about a year''s worth of gambled chores.


    It still left him feeling bare. He¡¯d have to work harder to hide his emotions in the future.


    Letting Lenora and the rest of his class pass, Callam made for one of the many doorways that led into the main hallway. Too loud he thought as he visited the first room¡ªit was packed with older students lounging about. Four of them were seated around a board of some kind, laying down magical pieces that stacked together to form a growing cityscape. Another three bickered in a corner, their shoulders stiff and body language tense.


    The second room he similarly discarded. He ducked out of it almost at once¡ªit appeared to be a reading area of some sort, repurposed into a kitchen for the meal. Knives and silverware flew through the air, chopping up exotic vegetables and meats. Tables laden with steaming dishes indented the expensive carpets. A roast pig had been shoved into a narrow fireplace, its fat and juices sizzling the flame underneath, and not one but two massive pots simmered over hot rocks someone had placed directly on the ground. Callam could see rings where stones had charred the floor.


    When the third room also failed to yield a quiet spot, he decided he¡¯d waited long enough. Cold stone pressed against his shirt as he slid to the floor in a shadowed corner of the hallway. After crossing his legs, he pulled his grimoire from his bag and laid it on his lap.


    Foreword: For Callam Quill, bonded companion.


    Callam Quill, Mage, Level 1.


    Grimoire Type: Unknown.


    Starlevel: Four.


    Skills: Literacy.


    Talents: Streetwise. Puzzles come easily to you.


    Spells: Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus (Recharging)


    Prologue: Your first spell


    A burst of warmth pulsed from the grimoire and Callam skimmed the rest, eager to get to his first chapter. Mind racing with possibilities, he turned the page.


    Chapter One: The Journey of Hidden Intent


    All beasts share two hearts,


    One of light, one of dark.


    The first they bare for all to see,


    The second they fill with private dreams,


    Man¡¯s great feat is his literacy


    Yet not all books are an easy read,


    Callam Quill of Chapelhill,


    Find and open Solem¡¯s Door,


    To learn the sister-spell hidden on this floor,


    And level the power within your heart once more.


    Description: Through close observation of the Prariebeast¡¯s actions, you have unlocked your first path.


    Nothing hunts without reason. Nothing lives without cause.


    Incantation: NA


    Timeline: One semester.


    Partem: This chapter can be shared with other readers.


    Footnote: this is a three-part quest.


    Sister-spell¡­?


    He could only guess what the term meant, but assumed it would unlock magic similar yet contrary to his first spell. Healing, maybe? His finger trailed the paper. ¡°Through close observation¡­¡± he muttered. It appeared he¡¯d been rewarded for questioning the beast¡¯s motivations.


    More than that, it seemed Rote had correctly deduced that his chapter was different from the rest of his classmates. How? Callam had no idea, but it didn¡¯t really matter¡ªchapters were directives, driving Seekers to accomplish feats throughout the tower. That much was for certain. The first few ones were also notoriously easy to complete.


    At least, they were supposed to be. His own chapter¡­ well, it was as the Sisters said: ¡°Fools circle a straight path.¡± It looked like loads of work for little reward.


    He sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Convoluted or not, difficult to solve or not, he was a true Seeker now. A mage searching for the next step in his journey.


    That alone made this riddle worth solving.


    Returning to the text, he worked to commit it all to memory¡ªnot just the words, but the feeling of heading in the right direction. It was comforting. Steady. An anchor in the storm of mysteries he¡¯d yet to solve.


    When the moment had passed, he stood up, put away his grimoire, and made for the main commissary.


    Best I ask Moose about Solom¡¯s Door, he decided as he skirted around two older students flirting against a pillar. As a second-year, the massive boy was likely to know answers about the Tower''s first floor and be smart enough to keep Callam¡¯s questions to himself.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Though he¡¯s likely to pry, and will expect answers in return.


    That was okay. At some point Callam would need to let his new friends in on his secrets. Until then, he could act ignorant or lie.


    ¡°Ho! Tomebound!¡± He looked up just in time to throw himself against the hallway¡¯s wall. Two lantern-kites¡ªone the spitting image of a tower dragon, the other a crimson phoenix¡ªspun rapidly in his direction, circling in a fury of sparks. With a hiss, they clashed, paper wings crumpling and bursting alight.


    ¡°Three rymers the bird rises ag¡ª¡± one girl wearing red robes and a matching scarf shouted, only to be cut off by a chorus of ¡°It is written,¡± and ¡°Double!¡±


    Callam blinked¡ªnot at the explosion that nearly missed him when the dragon lantern puffed to twice its size then burned away, but at the amount of money being gambled. Seekers truly lived a life far outside his means.


    ¡°Another round?¡± the girl teased, her hand held out to collect payment from those crowding the dining hall¡¯s entrance¡ªall first years, by the look of their youthful faces.


    She was greeted with groans. A few pained expressions too. Callam smiled. It seemed he wasn¡¯t the only one short on coin, and he got the distinct feeling the group had just been played. Squeezing by the onlookers, he took in the massive room.


    More than sixty long benches were pressed together inside the commissary, each stacked heavy with platters and plates, and filled to the brim with eating students. His stomach growled at the sight of pauper¡¯s pudding, fried meat, oat bread, and a dozen more dishes he couldn¡¯t recognize but hoped to taste. Teachers peppered the room, sitting in groups of two or three in enclaves cut into the castle¡¯s walls. Stained-glass windows set high up along those walls reflected the candle light. Conversations¡ªboth whispered and shouted¡ªechoed.


    It was rather overwhelming. And exciting.


    ¡°Callam, this way!¡± Spinning, he saw Lenora waving, a silver glass in her hand. Moose sat by her side, dwarfing everyone else as usual. A string of candles floated overhead, casting ring-like shadows on their bench.


    ¡°Bout time,¡± the giant grumbled when Callam approached. He chewed a mouthful of chicken, having stripped the meat from the bone. ¡°Nora had me looking the fool, standing up for twenty minutes.¡±


    ¡°It was not that long.¡± Scooching over to allow Callam to sit on her right, she asked, ¡°So? Tell us about your new chapter!¡±


    Callam hesitated for a moment¡ªbut he needed Moose¡¯s help anyway, and his grimoire had said his quest was sharable. Mind made up, he slipped his bag off his shoulders and positioned it between his feet. ¡°Can I get a plate first?¡±


    ¡°Eat!¡± Lenora giggled, her voice louder than she¡¯d likely intended. She took another sip of whatever drink her hands held. ¡°Eat and talk. Moose always does. Don¡¯t think he¡¯s ever shut his mouth.¡±


    ¡°Th¡¯ meat¡¯s exsh¡¯llent,¡± the second-year mumbled, as if to prove the point. After swallowing, he eyed the gray mash lingering in Lenora''s bowl. ¡°Avoid the pelish porridge¨Ctoo much salt. Only freemen stomach that.¡± A second later, he added, ¡°and low-bred orphans,¡± when Callam reached for the spoon.


    Callam ate in silence for a while, letting the comment linger. Only once Moose had begun to look deeply uncomfortable did he say, ¡°Would have killed for some of that, growing up.¡±


    ¡°Porridge?¡± To the giant¡¯s credit, he tried hard not to make a face.


    ¡°No, bread.¡±


    ¡°Well¡ªI¡­¡±


    Lenora burst out laughing. Hearing her broke Callam¡¯s composure, and his face cracked into a grin. After years of holding his tongue around Scriptors, the Sisters, and the Sootskins, it felt good to joke freely¡ªeven if the giant was a bit crass with his teasing.


    ¡°So,¡± he said, reaching past a pitcher brimming with juice to grab a meatpie. ¡°what do you know of Solem¡¯s Door?¡±


    Moose bit into a pear, his ears still red. ¡°Door? I know of Solem. Imagine you will too, by week''s end. About the only floor keeper we¡¯re not to kill. Enjoys puzzles.¡±


    That rung a bell. ¡°Is he a sphinx?¡±


    ¡°Well. They call him that, ya. Doesn¡¯t look like any sphinx I¡¯ve heard of, thou¡ª¡±


    Ding.


    The clear sound of metal hitting glass was unmistakable, demanding silence. Before Callam could even peer over his shoulder, a proud, deep voice echoed throughout the commissary: ¡°Seekers of the Tower, what is written.¡±


    On cue, the older students spoke up: ¡°Is foretold and forbidden.¡±


    ¡°That it was, until you found your way here,¡± the speaker said. Callam finally located him, not at the end of the tables as he¡¯d expected, but on a balcony looking down upon the hall. Up there, the man was an island¡ªsolitary, regal, dressed in black robes and flowing white shawls. Yet his shoulders appeared pinched and his expression tired. ¡°This Lighthouse is a beacon for many things: knowledge, magic, even mystery. But more than anything, it is the rightful home for the powerful. Look around you¡ªobserve your fellow Fated. Watch them drink and feast. Remember, these are the rewards He gives his warriors. To the Prophet, we are brothers in arms.¡±


    Heads up and down the benches nodded along to his speech. Callam, for his part, focused on chewing his food. This type of rhetoric had always made him uncomfortable, and hearing the Elders spew it during Binding Day hadn¡¯t helped.


    By the ardent looks of everyone around him, it was clear only he held such reservations.


    A fervor grew as the Scriptor began to pace, his voice more animated with each step. ¡°Of late we have become a scattered continent. Rebels seize our cities to the west, and monsters threaten our shores. We do not let the Ruddites know¡ªtheir minds cannot handle such truths. But as Seekers, you must understand. We are here to learn. To climb. Yet more than anything, we exist to protect.¡± The man paused, and where he¡¯d just been loud, now he was quiet. ¡°The Tower leads the way. Master its magic. Together, we shall light its flame.¡±


    Claps broke out, building slowly into a roar of approval. Two teens to Callam¡¯s right seemed particularly enthused, lifting goblets up with shouts of ¡°For the Prophet.¡± Across the table, Moose joined in, spearing a tomato with his fork and holding it up for all to see.


    Rote¡¯s melodic cheers rose above the rest. ¡°An inspiration as always, Headmaster Vale!¡±


    Callam¡¯s eyes found Lenora. There was no doubt the threat to the Lighthouse was real, but he still hoped for some sense of solidarity¡ªsome hint that he was not alone in his reservations.


    A smile graced her lips.


    Had that been her only expression, he might have felt alone. Yet her gaze told a deeper story. There was a hint of unease there. Worry. Thoughtfulness and apprehension too.


    ¡°Students,¡± Rote called out once the applause had settled. Hearing footsteps, Callam turned to watch the teacher walk to the center of the hall. ¡°Before we let you get back to your feast, we¡¯ve some administrative matters of note. Indoor classes shall commence at nine o¡¯ clock tomorrow and will follow an on-off schedule¡ªone day in the classroom, the next outside, traversing the floor like we did today. You can expect your tailored schedules in the morning, based on your star-level. Weekends and Fridays are your own. And, as a reminder, first years are not to climb without a proctor.¡±


    Having said his piece, the mage tossed a coin in the air. ¡°Heads,¡± his amplified voice boomed, ¡°and we bring out dessert. Tails, I recite the Sermon¡¯s book in song.¡± A second later, he caught the copper and slapped it down on his wrist. ¡°Lucky you.¡±


    ~~~


    Two slices of honey cake later and Callam still wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about the southern delicacy. Rarely had he tasted something so sweet. The tangy sauce had helped, but not enough to truly contrast the flavor.


    Still¡­ he reached for a third. He¡¯d gone hungry too often to pass up an expensive treat.


    ¡°Solem¡¯s not one to share guidance easily,¡± Moose said, leaning against the wall behind his back. His plate was picked clean, and he¡¯d finished an entire berry pie by himself. ¡°Tilla had dealings with him last year. Ran the clock out on her chapter searching for something worth trading, only to be rejected and fail.¡±


    ¡°Something worth trading?¡± Lenora took the words from Callam¡¯s mouth. She was leaning over, hands rifling through her bookbag on the ground, her long, chestnut hair draped her face.


    ¡° ¡®Knowledge given freely is knowledge stolen.¡¯ Or something like that. He¡¯s sure to demand a secret in return for his help.¡±


    ¡°You reckon I¡¯ll need it to find the door?¡± Callam asked.


    ¡°Certain as the Prophet¡¯s light. Solem¡¯s not like the keepers on higher floors. Much more powerful and loves his riddles. If he¡¯s hidden something, I doubt you¡¯ll find it on your own.¡±


    Callam wasn¡¯t so sure about that, but stayed quiet. While he¡¯d opened up about his quest, he¡¯d kept both its ability to be shared and his Streetwise talent private.


    ¡°The only real mystery is how this pertains to your gift of languages.¡± Looking up from her book, she playfully arched an eyebrow.


    His stomach dropped. ¡°Right,¡± he said, then took a sip of water to buy some time. The liquid chilled his tongue. ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s¡ª¡±


    ¡°No need to lie,¡± she interrupted, then her eyes widened slightly. ¡°Sorry! I mean¡­ I didn¡¯t mean to pry. We all have secrets.¡±


    ¡°Says you.¡± Moose stood, somehow pushing the whole bench forward as he did. ¡°I¡¯m an open book.¡±


    Even as color tinged her cheeks, Lenora rolled her eyes. ¡°That¡¯d be a first among nobles.¡±


    ¡°And a top cardsharp too,¡± the giant boy added, pulling a deck from his pocket. To Callam, he asked, ¡°Fancy a game of Seeker¡¯s talent? We second-years host a game in the dormitories. Will be Nora¡¯s first time as well.¡±


    Notes: hi everyone! Tried a longer chapter here, let me know how it reads to you all <3 Thanks. Please read the post chapter notes as well.

 Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Flame of Nobility

    Are we not all fools of our own making?


    We speak of virtue as we would vices,


    And berate ourselves for enjoying simple pleasures,


    Yet the lion feels no guilt when he hunts,


    The dragon, no shame when she hoards.


    Why must we alone cripple ourselves?


    To try and uphold false ideals of equality,


    When the Scriptor¡¯s role is to lead,


    The Ruddite¡¯s to serve.


    ~~High Prince Navin, Head of Queenskin Family


    To a noble the dormitories might have been dreary, with their cold stone floors and worn, threadbare furniture.


    Callam found them perfect. He followed Moose and Lenora through three twisting halls, up two flights of stairs, and down a narrow corridor ending in a massive loft. Purple-and-red tapestries adorned the opposing walls. Between them, a common area housed a roaring fireplace, dozens of tables, and twice as many chairs full of talking Seekers. Snacks were piled up within large goblets and bowls.


    ¡°Ho, Moose!¡± shouted a thin, green-eyed boy clutching a handful of cards. His voice barely carried over the din of the room. ¡°Bring new blood?¡± He waved them over to his table.


    ¡°Deal us in,¡± Moose shouted back, his voice traveling easily. Looking over his shoulder at Callam, he added, ¡°I¡¯ve already relayed the rules to Nora. Will catch you up as we play.¡±


    Callam nodded. Works for me. Truthfully, he was too full to feel truly sharp, yet was eager to try his hand at something new. If he could earn some coin in the process, well¡­ his purse was uncomfortably light.


    ¡°A copper per round?¡± the thin boy asked once they had all sat down. He seemed to remember his manners a second later and gestured to the pretty, dark-skinned girl to his right. ¡°This is Isole; I¡¯m Tavis. We¡¯re second-years.¡±


    ¡° ¡®ello.¡± she said kindly, adjusting the scarf around her neck. ¡°Is it not best if we wait for Silas? He¡¯s bound to bring a¡¯ noble fish or two.¡± Her northern accent was honey to Callam¡¯s ears.


    ¡°Bound to take forever, flirt that he is,¡± Moose grumbled. ¡°Penny each to play. Deal a practice round, will you?¡±


    A few ruffles of the deck later, ten cards were dealt per head. Four remained, placed face-down on a far-away corner of the table.


    ¡°Seeker¡¯s Talent is a king¡¯s game.¡± Moose shuffled his hand within his fingers like some hardened tavern gambler. ¡°So kings play high.¡±


    ¡° ¡®cept for the two wild cards, you mean,¡± Tavis cut in. ¡°The Poet and the Prophet beat all, with the Poet bowing to the Prophet when played on the same trick.¡±


    Callam nodded, understanding. Card games were to orphans what quills were to scribes, after all.


    ¡°We each play in turn, following suit,¡± Isole said, placing a three of hearts on the table. ¡°The commoner cards¡ªall cards ace through tens¡ªgo in a pile like this.¡±


    Moose played next, adding an eight of hearts to the pile. Callam¡¯s eyes went wide when the numbers in the stack began to wiggle and shift, peeling off the paper. First the three rose in the air, then the eight, circling each other in a whirlwind of red. A second later there was a small pop, and the numbers joined forces to become an eleven, then dropped back down on the card.


    Hoping to learn through experience, Callam played the king of hearts next.


    The result was anticlimactic. No magic radiated from the paper constructs; his king remained inert.


    He was about to ask why when Lenora scrunched her nose. ¡°...doesn¡¯t royalty go in another pile?¡±


    ¡°By the Poet, she can listen!¡± Deftly, Moose palmed Callam¡¯s king and moved it to its own home, left of the rest of the played cards. ¡°Seeker¡¯s Talent mirrors reality: jacks, queens, and kings all go in a pile here, separate from the rabble.¡±


    ¡°So¡­¡± Lenora¡¯s eyes twinkled as she placed a two of hearts on top of the eleven. ¡°That means I win this round. Right?¡±


    Before anyone could respond, magic burst forth from her card¡ªthe two and eleven left their frames and bonded together to become a crimson sword. Then, the weapon shot forth toward Callam¡¯s card with the urgency and violence of a fireball. His royal was caught completely unaware¡ªthe monarch¡¯s body popped out of the mana construct half-asleep.


    It wasn¡¯t a fair fight. With the squealing of a fattened pig, the king was dispatched.


    ¡°That¡¯s a challenge,¡± Tavis said. ¡°When the combined value of the commoner stack matches that of a royal, they conspire together and mount a coup.¡± Thirteen hearts settled into the now barren throne as he spoke.


    Callam frowned, looking at his lesser cards in a new light. He understood Lenora¡¯s strategy: by going second to last, she¡¯d increased the likelihood that her card wouldn¡¯t be overpowered.


    She¡¯ll win unless Tavis holds the Prophet or the Poet. *


    Tavis didn¡¯t, so Lenora collected the cards. ¡°Penny a trick, then?¡± She asked, grinning, then led the three of diamonds.


    Several hands later, Callam found himself dangerously low on coin.


    ¡°You¡¯ve drawn the Prophet again?¡± He rubbed his forehead in feigned exasperation. He¡¯d already lost a few tricks in a similar manner, so his exaggerated reaction didn¡¯t seem unusual.


    ¡°Sure did,¡± Isole laughed, collecting the cards. Across from her, Lenora sat quietly, lips moving as she did some math¡ªshe¡¯d taken the lead a few minutes earlier with Moose huffing about his poor luck.


    Hopefully Silas arrives soon, Callam thought. If not, I¡¯ll be cleaned out within the hour.


    Tossing his cards face-down on the table, he glanced around. He couldn¡¯t afford to keep throwing away winning hands, yet he didn¡¯t want to fleece his new friends when there were actual nobles to rob.


    Tavis must have been looking around too, for he sat up in his chair and waved. ¡°Over here, Silas!¡±


    "Hey!" the boy called back, a bit out of breath. Tall, with a strong jawline and curly dark hair, it was immediately clear why he¡¯d been accused of being a flirt. His features were only enhanced by the sapphire stud in his right ear¡ªa piercing customary among nobles of military birth.


    He drew in every eye.


    Any other day, Callam might have felt envious. Today, though, his gaze shifted past Silas to the noble boy trailing behind him. Dark thoughts flooded his mind¡ªmemories of an ice-cold sword, a hungry spellbook, and a coffin-like wardrobe surfacing unbidden.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Sebastian Writ met his eyes with a smirk.


    ¡°The fresh blood was all busy gossiping,¡± Silas sighed as he pulled out a vacant chair and sunk into it. ¡°So were the upper-classmen. Thankfully, I ran into Sebastian on my way here. Couldn¡¯t find us an eighth and ninth, though.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll ¡®ave more luck tomorrow,¡± Isole replied, her dexterous hands mixing all the cards up in a dealer¡¯s shuffle.


    ¡°The Poet can only hope.¡± Sebastian''s voice was sour as vinegar. He held his chin high, and when he sat it was with that sense of arrogance common among those who own everything around them. ¡°To think I¡¯m playing with paupers.¡± Sneering at Callam, he added, ¡°Bound, did you? Chains and cuffs truly are wonders of rehabilitation¡­¡±


    Callam kept his face straight. Beneath the table, though, his fingernails bit at his knees. Heat flared at the back of his neck. Yet he refused to rise to the jibe. Tonight, he¡¯d have his revenge.


    The cards couldn¡¯t be dealt fast enough.


    ¡°You two know each other?¡± Lenora spoke warmly, though her grip on her cards was unusually stiff.


    ¡°Hardly. Though you might say my family is a staunch supporter of his. Ensured he lived long enough to make it here.¡±


    ¡°You must be really proud, then,¡± she said a little too sweetly, ¡°now that Callam¡¯s got a four-star grimoire.¡±


    That was enough to raise some brows along the table.


    ¡°Crow¡¯s foot.¡± Moose yawned before things could get more awkward. ¡°Enough talk. I''d sooner sleep than listen to banter.¡±


    Isole clearly agreed. ¡°Winner plays first,¡± she said, throwing down a spade.


    Callam lost that trick, and the next, before staging a small comeback. The sermons were right when they claimed, ¡°The Prophet and the Poet are each other¡¯s keepers.¡± In this case, literally so. By good fortune, he was dealt each more than once¡ªmuch to Sebastian''s chagrin.


    ¡°Where I¡¯m from, the last hand takes all,¡± Callam said an hour later. ¡°What say you? Shall we up the bet before calling it a night?¡± Leaning back, he worked to keep a smirk off his face. Then he let it slip in a subtle sign of overconfidence.


    His audience ate it up. Moose¡¯s eyes shone brighter than those of a gambler hitting sevens.


    At that moment, Callam could only imagine how he looked. Scruffy in his linen¡ªsoiled from the fights with the prairie beast¡ªand proud from regaining most of his lost copper. He let them talk among themselves as he peeked at his face-down cards. By now, they must have guessed he had something. Six pairs of eyes stared at him questioningly, trying to deduce his cards.


    If they were clever, they would realize he wasn¡¯t holding both the Prophet and the Poet. The same held true for the four kings¡ªif he had too many powerful cards, his opponents¡¯ hands would be too weak collectively to accept his wager.


    No, Callam¡¯s gambit relied on him having average cards. A bunch of commoners, a king, and a few queens.


    It would do.


    ¡°One copper each.¡± Moose spoke for the group. ¡°Money goes to the one with the most tricks.¡±


    Sebastian was far more brash. ¡°Double,¡± he spat, throwing down two coins.


    ¡°I¡¯ll accept,¡± Callam said, fishing the rest of his coins from his purse. He tried not to show his nerves; if he lost now, he¡¯d have nothing to his name.


    Lenora alone made a face. ¡°Count me out,¡± she sighed, tossing in her hand. Catching Callam¡¯s eye, she smiled.


    Has she figured me out?


    Sebastian held no such reservations. After adding two copper to the pile, he led with a low diamond. Moose took the trick, trumping Isole¡¯s queen with his king.


    Callam kept count. Not only of the high cards¡ªeveryone did that¡ªbut of the least-powerful ones. They were the key. A warm, tingling feeling fell over him as more tricks were laid. He began to suspect that it was his Streetwise skill at work.


    Do spells and skills impact how we play? It made sense that they would. Yet there had to be some limitations, otherwise no one would gamble without asking about hidden talents first.


    Moose led next, and lost to Sebastian,who slammed his Poet down on a stack of royal cards.


    That left four tricks. Callam took one, playing his only king.


    Staring at his hand, he gauged his next move. Most of the low cards had already been played¡ªeveryone else had thrown them early, opting to hold onto their more-powerful cards. An obvious strategy.


    And a foolish one.


    He laid down a ten of spades. To the casual observer it seemed an amateurish mistake, and sensing weakness, Silas slammed a jack of spades in the royalty stack, only for Moose to throw down a two.


    At once, the number on his card merged with Callam¡¯s ten, forming a giant bow and arrow. With a twang the black weapon dispatched the jack, then took its place in the form of a regal queen.


    It really is the low cards that matter most, Callam thought, scratching the back of his neck.


    All commoners could dethrone royalty, this was true. But only some could add up to eleven, twelve, or thirteen. So, once the smaller numbers were played, the larger commoners would get stranded, unable to overthrow royalty.


    That made saving low cards powerful, if played right.


    He took the next trick, then dropped a queen, hoping the Prophet wouldn¡¯t be played. It was, by a triumphant Sebastian.


    The bastard had been dealt both wild cards.


    One trick left.


    By necessity, Callam had to win here, otherwise he¡¯d lose to Sebastian or Moose. Too bad he held a four. Normally a weak card, so he had to hope his math was right.


    Dryness gripped his throat. He eyed the copper in the center of the table, then stood and stretched his arms. ¡°Anyone need a drink or snack?¡± he asked, making for a cistern by the back of the room.


    ¡°And indulge in concessions?¡± Sebastian jeered. ¡°We¡¯ll leave giving up to you, pauper.¡±


    Moose and Isole snickered. He couldn¡¯t blame them. It was a clever play on words.


    Slowly, he drew a glass of water. His body tingled again, bringing Lenora¡¯s earlier statement about Moose¡¯s tells back to mind. Sauntering to the table, he searched for the giant¡¯s fingers. They weren¡¯t moving.


    He¡¯s got nothing.


    ¡°Double, you said?¡± He stared Sebastian down. When the noble played a queen of clubs, he grinned. ¡°I¡¯ve got you beat.¡±


    Isole went next, playing a ten. Moose didn¡¯t say a word as he revealed his seven and reset the stack. Tavis was void and laid down a worthless heart.


    It all came down to this. If Silas was holding an eight or a nine, Callam could meld with it to take the trick. If he wasn¡¯t, he¡¯d be copperless again.


    A nine was revealed.


    Callam¡¯s tried not to gloat. Reaching for a basket of berries, he popped one in his mouth. Then he flipped up his three.


    Victory had rarely tasted so sweet.


    Sebastian¡¯s anger only made it more worthwhile. ¡°Cheat!¡± he accused, his voice deadly quiet. Brackish water circled his arms. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tightened his grip on the table¡¯s edge, water rippling softly around him.


    ¡°By the poet,¡± Moose laughed. ¡°It¡¯s cards. Beginner¡¯s luck, is all.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more than that.¡± Sebastian stood, nearly knocking back his chair. ¡°He thinks it fun to make others the fool.¡±


    Callam laughed. Flush with triumph, he reached for his coins. Yet his smile stiffened when he scooped them up. There was some truth to Sebastian''s words that hit uncomfortably close to home. Sure, the loss might have only cost the noble a few coppers, but pride had no price.


    Revenge was rarely worth making an enemy for life.


    ---Quick notes!


    Want to play Seeker''s talent with friends? Here are all the rules.


    1. Shuffle all 54 cards together (jokers included). The black Joker represents the Prophet, and the red one the Poet.


    2. Deal all the cards out. If you can''t deal them evenly, deal until everyone has the same amount of cards, then put the rest aside.


    3. Kings play high-- I know, this isn''t normal, but fits a world where royalty rules.


    4. Dealer plays first. Everyone must follow suit (so if the dealer plays a heart, everyone must too, unless they don''t have a heart)--with the exception of the poet and prophet. These can be played at any time, to win the trick, with the Prophet beating the Poet when played in the same hand.


    5. Winner of each trick choses which suit to lead next.


    6, All royalty goes in one pile, all commoners go in another. Whenever the combined total of the commoner (none face) cards matches that of a royal, or exceeds that of a royal, they dethrone.


    7. Note on the above: this only happens if there is a royal in the stack. Otherwise nothing happens.


    So for instance, if you throw a three on a ten, but there is no royal in the stack, nothing happens. If however, someone played a jack earlier, you move your three and the ten to the royalty stack, and they now play as a king.


    8. Whenever the value of the commoner stack is more than 13, the stack resets. So If you play an eight, and someone else a nine on your eight, the total value is not 15, it is 0.


    9. Last card played wins. Using the example above. You challenge, overthrowing a jack of clubs with your 3+10 of clubs. Then someone else plays the king of clubs. They win the trick, overthrowing you.


    Hope that helps!

 Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Folly of the Fortunate

    Why does our shadow stretch longest when the sun sets?


    Do we beckon the darkness?


    Or does it call to us?


    ~~The First Poet after her second awakening


    <hr>


    ¡°First-years sleep on the ground floor.¡± Moose rubbed his head, looking every bit the weary gambler. ¡°That way,¡± he said, shooing Callam toward a staircase by the fireplace. ¡°Crow¡¯s foot, to be lucky as you...¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Callam said, his pockets heavy with the night''s winnings. The fire crackled loudly in the deserted common room, its dying embers a reminder of the time. Above, the occasional paperfowl hooted, nestled atop the cross beams supporting the ceiling.


    One girl snored in a cozy chair.


    Just a few more minutes and Callam would¡¯ve joined her; he was dead tired, having stayed up in hopes of further strengthening his friendship with Moose and Lenora. Both had been a bit subdued since his victory¡ªthe giant lamenting his ill fortune, and Lenora lost in thought. True, she¡¯d been the last to leave, and had shared a warm goodbye, but he¡¯d have sworn there was more she¡¯d wanted to say.


    Callam didn¡¯t know what to make of that.


    Dragging himself to the staircase, he wound his way down the spiraling steps, feet heavy. Before him, a line of private suites stretched the length of the corridor, each labeled after Port Cardica¡¯s most powerful families. Warm air from the cracks in the doors tickled his skin as he walked on by, entering instead a room titled ¡°Journeymen.¡± Here, humble bunks were stacked three tall throughout the quarters¡ªprivacy, it seemed, was still a luxury he could not afford.


    He didn¡¯t really mind.


    The gentle rise and fall of sleeping boys filled his ears as he searched for an empty cot and sat down. There was safety in that rhythm. It was familiar in a world of grand, new experiences. Common, like him. With a sigh, he took in all the features of his shared space: his wooden bunk, scratched up from years of use, the slightly damp smell of mildew and dirt that seemed to permeate every stone, and the fresh bedding beneath him, firm, yet with enough give to be comfortable.


    Compared to straw, it felt like heaven.


    Like home.


    With that realization, a weight he¡¯d carried throughout his life lifted. It was a burden borne by every orphan, a secret never uttered for fear it might come true. It was that bottomless hole within those forced to lie and cheat, for survival demanded the sacrifice of their self worth. His ache was so deep and personal, he found true strength simply in admitting it.


    I feared I¡¯d never belong.


    And yet here he was. In the tower¡ªwith his first chapter unlocked. Yes, he had challenges ahead: he¡¯d need to protect himself from the elders, master new spells, and unravel the secrets to his Seedling and his mother¡¯s plight. But in the shadow of tonight¡¯s accomplishments those felt like small matters. Today, he¡¯d fulfilled an unspoken wish.


    He¡¯d made actual friends.


    Callam sat in silence for a long while, gripped by a deep sense of¡­ gratitude.


    Then he quietly began to withdraw his possessions from his bookbag. First, he pulled out his purse, the bracelet his sister had gifted him, and his shiv. He tucked these under his pillow. The set of robes¡ªstraight from Gilded Robes and Garments¡ªand the stationery Nahnie had bought him, he pushed into a nook near his bed. That done, he changed into his spare, ratty shirt.


    Only after slipping under the quilt did he take out his grimoire and clutch it by his side. The room was crowded, and it didn¡¯t take a thief to know treasures were best kept close to the heart.


    When sleep finally came, it was a restless one, filled with anticipation and anxiety. Visions of Rote¡¯s stretched face singing a grimtale, Sebastian¡¯s sniggers, and Lenora¡¯s sweet smile all turned into a stampede of feet as morning arrived.


    Blankets were thrown. A lightning spell crackled.


    ¡°Poet¡¯s hand,¡± someone yawned, ¡°but it¡¯s early!¡± ¡°Feel like a Ruddite at work,¡± another complained.


    Callam groaned in exhaustion. He wasn¡¯t alone; at least three others looked as he felt¡ªlikely they too were suffering from spell backlash. Dressing was a slow torture, and he almost fell into another bunk while trying to pull on his pants. Packing went even worse. When he bent over, a sharp pain shot through his back, and he strongly considered going back to sleep.


    Shouldn¡¯t my recovery improve with each cast? some dulled part of his mind wondered.


    It seemed unusual that he hadn¡¯t. When walking across the dormitory failed to loosen him up, he began to anxiously rub the Seedling¡¯s scar. If my body always react¡ª


    He stopped. His pulse quickened.


    ¡°Sorry!¡± said a short Seeker after nearly knocking him over. ¡°Sorry!¡±


    Callam paid the tomebound no mind. Instead he spun, his face set in a frown. Hopefully it looked like he¡¯d forgotten something¡ªhopefully no one noticed the light emanating from his finger.


    With a few panicked strides, he returned to his bed and began to make it. Orderliness was not his strong suit, but he needed an excuse to glance at his hands without drawing attention.


    Relief flooded through him a second later. The glow was indeed more bright than it had been the night before, but hardly eye-catching.


    Unless it keeps getting brighter.


    He swallowed, joy and fear mingling at the thought. For weeks now, he¡¯d hoped his Seedling would do something¡ªshow any growth at all. Yet now that it had, it was proving hard to hide.


    I¡¯ll have to cover the scar somehow.


    Dirt, maybe? Looking around, he cursed the stone floors. Pockets? No, I¡¯ll need my hands free in class.


    He settled on a makeshift bandage. As soon as he was certain he wasn¡¯t being watched, he ripped up the hem of his worn shirt and tied it tight around his finger. If anyone asked, he¡¯d tell them he was a poor hand with a knife.


    Satisfied, he headed for the door.


    Two Seekers were waiting for him. One tall and brunette, one chubby and blond. Distinct nose bridges marked them as relatives.


    ¡°Quill?¡± the larger one inquired.


    ¡°Who¡¯s asking?¡± He furrowed his brow. These boys seemed friendly, but he¡¯d been tricked before.


    ¡°I¡¯m Elden. This is Mica. Professor Bookswell sent us to grab you. He¡¯s to share breakfast with you.¡± A flash of jealousy shot across the blond boy''s features, so quick Callam almost missed it.


    ¡°Lead the way, then,¡± he said. Questions flooded his mind. Yet he did not ask them; silence bought more peace than curiosity. The Sister¡¯s wooden switch had taught that lesson well.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ~~~


    ¡°What is written?¡± asked a broad man seated at a table in the corner of the commissary. His words were not a question, and he did not stand in greeting as Callam approached. White streaked his full beard, and the expression he wore was severe enough to put the Sisters¡¯ scowls to shame. ¡°You¡¯re late.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ pardon me.¡± Callam tried to ignore the looks he was receiving from Lenora and the handful of other seated tomebound. This man did not seem the type to tolerate excuses.


    A muscled arm waved him to an open stool. ¡°Sit. We¡¯ve much to discuss, and you have forced me to begin anew.¡±


    Callam complied, wincing at his body¡¯s complaints. The smells of fried eggs, sweated onion, and his favorite sausage links teased his nose. He dared not reach for them.


    ¡°Headmaster Vale has informed you that our continent is at war. What he left for me to share was the state of our armies. Our forces are spent. Every day, we get word of new heretics, of growing monster hordes¡ªeven now, our enemies gain ground.¡±


    The clinking of silverware on plates met his words. Seeing he had their attention, the professor continued, ¡°It is the sworn duty of the Archivists down in the Roots to catalog mankind''s knowledge and be a passive resource for our Scriptors. This year, those responsibilities have expanded. The Archivists have agreed, for the first time, to impart their wisdom with our top students as well. With our four-star tomebound.¡±


    Pausing, he gave them a calculating look. Shouts and laughter in the distance spoke to an exciting morning for the rest of the student body. Professor Bookswell paid them no mind. His eyes found Callam and lingered. Lip curling, he said:


    ¡°Each Sunday, you all are to delve the Roots. Do not mistake me; this will not be the casual studying allowed to your peers. You are to work the excavation to exhaustion. Memorize the transcriptions. Learn the histories. What information the Archivists deign to impart, you will cherish and use practically. By semester¡¯s end, Vale intends for you each to scale two to three floors farther than your class. You will not fail him, or me.¡±


    ¡°Sir, what should we study there?¡± asked a young-looking boy with glasses. To his left, an older girl nodded before biting into some toast.


    ¡°Everything.¡± Professor Bookswell stood, revealing the full extent of his stature. Here was a man built for command. Taking a stack of iron tokens from his bookbag, he handed them out. ¡°These will let you into the Root¡¯s lower levels.¡± Before leaving, he added, ¡°Combat classes begin within the hour. Do not dally¡ªwars are lost in the minutes spent waiting for laggards.¡±


    Callam didn¡¯t need telling that the message was meant for him. He blinked, a lifetime¡¯s worth of frustration at being spoken down to surfacing¡ªsurely he couldn¡¯t be blamed for running late.


    No one mentioned meeting for breakfast. And what¡¯s this about combat class¡ª


    Wood scraping on stone interrupted his thoughts. ¡°Should I have called a search party?¡± Lenora asked playfully, crossing her legs after taking a seat in the chair by his side. She shifted slightly, and her dark hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder¡ªshe¡¯d chosen a green, sleeveless dress for the occasion. Face now hidden, she mouthed, ¡°What were you thinking?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking anything,¡± he shot back.


    ¡°That part¡¯s obvious,¡± drawled an older student across the table. Black robes hugged her figure, and her bookbag seemed far more fashionable than practical. ¡°Whispering works best when around people who don¡¯t have advanced magic.¡±


    Callam blanched. Thankfully the newcomer returned to her food without saying anything more.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk after,¡± he told Lenora, then half-heartedly served himself some eggs. Spearing one, he took a bite. Normally, he would have taken the professor¡¯s comments in stride, but this was to be his home, and he¡¯d been ridiculed enough in his life to know how much making a good first impression mattered.


    Mouth souring, he pushed his plate away. It truly was as the stanzas warned, ¡°The mirrors in every eye reflect what others decide.¡± For the first time ever, he had very little appetite.


    ¡°... so?¡± Lenora pried a few minutes later once they¡¯d left the commissary for the castle¡¯s winding hallways. She¡¯d stayed quiet throughout their meal, tossing him the occasional glance of support.


    ¡°I was never told,¡± he answered sincerely, stopping to allow a torrent of students to pass. Space from the exchange had helped him clear his head.


    ¡°Told?¡± Lenora hugged her satchel, trying not to get caught in the crowd. ¡°I thought you checked your tome last night?¡±


    ¡°I did¡­¡± Yet even as he said it, he began to feel stupid. He swung his bag onto his torso, pulled out his book, and thumbed it open. Reading chapter one brought back his confidence¡­ until he flipped the page.


    His heart fell. How did I miss my schedule?


    Lenora¡¯s face softened into a playful smile. ¡°You¡¯re plenty clever.¡± She tapped the side of her button nose. ¡°Details do make the man, though.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Callam said after a bit. The sound of their footsteps carried through a giant room covered in vines and littered with orphaned columns¡ªLenora, at least, seemed to know where they were going. ¡°I¡¯ve been the fool before.¡± Hoping to change the subject, he added, ¡°Didn¡¯t Rote mention we¡¯d be indoors today?¡±


    ¡°We are. Professor Bookswell called this class ¡®combat training,¡¯ but Moose warned it''s closer to conditioning. Brutal, apparently¡­¡± She trailed off as they reached a line of first-years queuing around a pair of locked doors. Few among them appeared as sore as Callam felt; the majority lounged and chatted animatedly. One girl seemed to have rudimentary control over feathers and had made a game of stacking her quills nib to nib.


    I hope we won¡¯t have to wait long. The way Lenora kept rearranging the things in her bag¡ªthe soft rustling of parchment and the faint clink of glass vials¡ªmade it clear that she too was anxious for class to start.


    It was a relief, then, when the doors swung open, leading them into a long, musty chamber. Beams of light lanced down from a skylight, dousing parts of the room in gold and illuminating dust motes that danced along the slate floor. Mats and carpets had been piled in a corner, where they now lay forgotten. To Callam, it very much looked like the entire space had been sealed off for the better part of a year.


    A nearby student sneezed, then sneezed again.


    ¡°Order yourselves from left to right, by star level,¡± read a solitary sign, standing out like a roadside waystone.


    A shuffling of feet later, and they¡¯d complied. Three other Seekers wielded four-star grimoires¡ª all foreign students Callam recognized from breakfast¡ªbut before Lenora could introduce them, their teacher made herself known. In a whisper of fabric she jumped down from the ceiling, landing in a crouch. Red ribbons came loose from her robe and billowed around her, catching the light as they swirled gracefully.


    It was a tad much, but the thief in Callam could certainly appreciate style.


    ¡°Scripture speaks of the power of words, yet little thought is given to toning the body,¡± the professor said, gathering herself and leading them to the back of the room. Little cracks appeared where she walked, only to quickly close up again. ¡°Whom among you feels pressure around your chest? Backlash from your spells?¡±


    A chorus of ¡°here!¡± echoed off the walls.


    ¡°Today, we fix that.¡± She grinned, and a shiver ran down Callam¡¯s back. Merra had smiled like that once, when he¡¯d first joined the Sootskins. The witch had run him for miles, left him in the ocean without a boat or buoy, and handed him stolen goods before calling the guards¡ªall under the guise of ¡°training.¡± Even years later, he could still feel the burn in his legs.


    Now, Merra¡¯s smile seemed sweet by comparison.


    ¡°But first, we must cover the basics,¡± their teacher continued, spinning gracefully to walk backward. ¡°Do any of you know the reason why Ruddites are not allowed in the Tower? You!¡± she pointed to a tiny girl, her hand raised and nose buried in a scroll.


    ¡°The unbounded body cannot handle mana density,¡± the girl murmured.


    ¡°Close. The truth is, given ample potions, even Ruddites can climb the Tower. What they cannot do is expel mana buildup. Oh, they¡¯d survive a while here, especially the hardy ones,¡± the professor explained, noting their incredulous looks. ¡°But without a means to cast, they will die. Any guesses as to... yes?¡±


    This time, Lenora had raised her hand, a thoughtful expression on her face. ¡°Is it perhaps a case of too much of a good thing?¡± she mused. ¡°Mana makes everything easier¡ªbreathing, walking, all the little things¡ªuntil the body becomes so dependent on it that it can¡¯t function alone. That¡¯s all well and good for us, but without a way to release spent mana, Ruddites become overfull. They¡¯ve no space left to absorb more.¡±


    ¡°Succinctly put.¡± Coming to a stop in front of a circular stone set into the ground, the professor shook her head, her expression distant. ¡°The body rarely knows what is good for it. It craves mana¡ªneeds it. But just as breathing too quickly leads to collapse, so too will absorbing mana without a means to flush the system lead to death. Ruddites will draw from the well here until they burst.¡±


    ¡°Why then, do I feel so weary after...?¡± asked one of the foreign four-star tomebound, his bushy brow furrowed. ¡°Sorry, uh,¡± he fumbled for the right word. ¡°Menjalsa? Spell-having?¡± The dark rings under his eyes hinted he was as tired as Callam felt.


    ¡°Casting,¡± the professor corrected, her demeanor shifting back to its earlier intensity. With a stomp on the circle, she caused a series of narrow steps to erupt from the ground along the room¡¯s perimeter. A rumble spread from where she stood, shifting the stone as it reverberated up to the ceiling¡ªa breath later, dust cascaded from above as stalactites shot down, forming all sorts of obstacles.


    ¡°You¡¯re tired because your magic is strong, but you aren¡¯t,¡± she explained. ¡°Expelling mana might save the body, but it leaves a void, and until that void is filled, you¡¯ll feel ill. There is only one solution we¡¯ve found to improve recovery.¡± She flashed the whites of her teeth. ¡°Conditioning. Conditioning a lot.¡±


    ~~~ Heads up, i''ve been having ocular migraines all week. Currently seeking treatment and doing my best to dictate my chapters.

 Chapter Forty: Challenges and Tribulations

    "In matters of taste, there is no dispute.


    Those with power decide."


    ~~The First Prophet, during his Lighthouse ascent


    ¡°You¡¯re up, Callum!¡± shouted their teacher Irem from her place in the center of the room¡ªshe¡¯d introduced herself right before the first bout of students had attempted the obstacle course. ¡°Lenora¡¯s still got the record to beat! Prophet be with you!¡±


    Callam groaned and stood up slowly, trying to ignore the sweat drenching his skin from the fifteen minutes of alternating push-ups and laps he¡¯d just been put through. How he¡¯d manage to sit through the rest of his classes today in dirty clothes, he had no idea, but he found himself envious of those who¡¯d thought to bring a fresh set to wear.


    ¡° ¡®Wardrobe expectations were covered in the schedules,¡¯ ¡± he grumbled, repeating back what Irem had told him earlier when he¡¯d complained. Again. he cursed his stupidity. Damp linen clung to his back as he walked up to the first obstacle in the four-star course: a rising, twisting ledge of stone just thick enough to balance on.


    Yeah. I¡¯ll definitely need more than two shirts.


    With one hand, he tried to free the fabric sticking to his neck. With the other, he steadied himself against a stone railing. A sourness filled his mouth that had nothing to do with fatigue¡ªthe idea of spending last night¡¯s winnings so quickly after acquiring them made him ill.


    Yet it was clear he couldn¡¯t continue to get on by washing all his clothes at night.


    Not if he was expected to train like this every day. The harsh soapstone would sooner ruin his tunics than get all the sweat and grime out.


    ¡°On my count¡­ three, two, one, run!¡± Irem yelled.


    To Callam¡¯s left and right, Seekers sprinted down their versions of the course. He joined in, nearly tripping when his feet found a patch of smooth stone on the rising beam that served as his first obstacle. Using a thieves tricks, he turned his fall into momentum and barreled his way up the ledge on all-fours, each hand in front of its corresponding foot, then stood and weaved between a series of jagged stalactites intent on forcing him off the path.


    Memories of warm bread and angry guards flooded his mind. Of Sootskins'' shouting convoluted directions from nearby rooftops, and of Merra laughing as he swerved between merchants¡¯ carts.


    Compared to that, this was easy.


    Reaching the end of the beam, Callam leapt. Outstretched arms hugged rock and he gripped the massive stalactite that served as the second obstacle with all his might. The majority of his class had failed here¡ªonly Lenora and Feliv, the foreign boy with the bushy brows, had managed it so far.


    Callam locked his ankles in place. With small, practiced movements, he shifted his weight until he¡¯d bouldered the circumference of the rock, trusting the friction from his pants to help keep him from slipping.


    A careful jump down and he¡¯d made it to the narrow stone uprising on the other side of the obstacle. There, he had just enough space for his feet to fit next to each other.


    ¡°Ten seconds left, Tomebound!¡±


    Rushing through a series of thin stalagmites meant to slow him down, he picked up his pace. The fourth challenge was just ahead¡ªa massive, slick climbing wall that he knew from observation would erupt forth from the ground when he approached.


    No one had cleared this one yet.


    He scaled it in three big lunges, trusting his experience as a climber to keep him from falling off. Reaching the top, he dug his fingers in and threw himself over the lip, only to realize in the last moment that the other side of the wall was a slide. He shot down it with one leg out and one knee bent. Wind rushed through his hair. At the halfway point, he jumped¡ªany farther and his momentum would¡¯ve carried him to the floor. A clumsy roll on the landing platform later, and Callam¡¯s eyes watered. Why, in the Poet¡¯s good name, did everything need to be made of granite?


    No matter. Coming to his feet, he rushed for the fifth obstacle¡ª


    ¡°Time!¡± shouted Irem. ¡°Next Seeker, approach!¡±


    Callam took short, labored breaths while walking back to his group. His back felt battered as a wind-torn sail, and he was certain he shouldn¡¯t have tried so hard on the last obstacle. Better he pace himself.


    ¡°Always the showoff,¡± Lenora teased, a playful curve tugging along her lips when he looked her way. Almost absentmindedly, she brushed a stray thread off the fitted tunic she¡¯d traded her green dress for.


    He tried not to notice how well it accentuated her figure.


    ¡°Have you a hidden¡­ what¡¯s the word? Tail?¡± joked Feliv, his attire tidy despite the rigorous training. Around him, the remaining four-star wielders nodded their respects: Melvin, a freckled boy from the Western Isles with thin, aristocratic features; Tige, a southern girl with a dark complexion and regal posture; and Medea, a blonde who soon excused herself to attempt the course for the first time. Of the four foreigners, she alone lacked the overt airs of nobility, though her poise still hinted at high birth.


    Callam laughed. Hopefully, no one could tell he felt out of place.


    ¡°Clever, that¡­ sv¨¦lja you did with the wall,¡± Feliv said once Medea had begun the trial. ¡°To take it at speed¡ªI shall try such a thing too.¡±


    Irem ran up to them before the boy was given the chance.


    ¡°Seekers, keep switching until the hour¡¯s up!¡± she called over her shoulder, the ribbons of her robe forming a trail in her wake. Facing their group, she added, ¡°Stronger tomes result in greater mana expulsion, so simple conditioning won¡¯t cut it for you all in the long run. That¡¯s why we¡¯ve got these.¡± She grinned, passing off what looked like a bag of bricks. ¡°Tie them onto your backs. Add one per attempt, up to four each. They¡¯ll easily get you into dueling shape. ¡±


    By the time Callam had finished his forth attempt, he¡¯d fully committed Irem¡¯s wicked smirk to memory. He could see every line on her face¡ªthe way that toothy smile stretched across her features and pulled at the corners of her jaw, more beast than human. It followed him everywhere, even when he closed his eyes. Sores burned where the bricks she¡¯d handed him had rubbed against his clothes.


    ¡®Easily,¡¯ she said. He shook his foggy head, exhausted. There¡¯s nothing easy about this class.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    And yet¡­ despite the discomfort he was in, he found himself grinning. This, he could do. Even with the added weight, he¡¯d managed to improve, having just reached the sixth obstacle before time ran out.


    Muscle memory really was an incredible thing.


    Callam¡¯s heartbeat was still pounding when Irem¡¯s voice cut through his daze. ¡°Great work!¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯ve twenty minutes left¡ªnow the real training begins. Your weights, please?¡± Soft hands helped take his load off. Lenora''s soft hands, he realized, when he caught sight of her dark curtain of hair so near.


    It was suddenly hard for him to speak.


    ¡°Valine selnire frigais caldier verdime,¡± Irem incanted, and cold shot through his bones. ¡°You should feel a chill on your bruises¡ªon the muscles you worked most on this course,¡± she explained, likely mistaking Callam¡¯s frown for confusion; in reality, his mind had already translated the words. ¡°While you train, try to use the natural mana your body absorbs to melt my spell. Consider this a key step in developing your chapters around defensive magics¡­¡±


    Callam¡¯s lips turned blue as she spoke. Poet¡¯s hand, he swore to himself, and leaned over to scrape the ice off his ankles and thighs. Unwelcome anxiety coiled within his stomach¡ªthis task was certain to prove difficult for him. Yesterday''s foray with the Prairiebeast had promised that.


    ¡°Lenora, you¡¯re up first.¡±


    Rocks kicked up underfoot as Callam raced up the thin stone beam five minutes later. A stitch burned in his side, but he ignored it, his full concentration on the obstacle below. Left leg in front of the right, then jump. Simple enough a maneuver any child could have done it, yet his feet were so numb a single false step would make him trip.


    And that would leave him with the worst performance among his group.


    Already, the rest of the four-star wielders had shown improvement, with Feliv and Mediva able to stop the ice on their skin from spreading entirely. Worse, their expressions had slowly shifted from respect to pity and scorn.


    He didn¡¯t need to hear their hushed comments to know he was losing face.


    Callam gritted his teeth. Orphans grew skin thicker than a tanner¡¯s hide, so he was surprised to find how much their judgements bothered him. Pressing off the beam, he leapt once more for the massive stalactite that made up the second obstacle. Where before he¡¯d cleared it easily, this time ice spread along his arms when he squeezed the stone.


    Please work, he prayed. His last attempt had ended here.


    Following Irem¡¯s instructions he tried to draw mana in through his skin, targeting the frozen areas. It should have been easy¡ªhis body constantly absorbed mana to fuel its magic, after all¡ªand pleasant. By Lenora¡¯s account, the sensation felt like that first lick of warmth from a freshly lit fire.


    All he achieved was a shiver¡ªthe only warmth came from his panting breath.


    His hands started to slip. Desperate not to fall, he wedged the point of the stalactite between his feet. At least his shoes did him a favor here, providing grip on the rough surface.


    Again.


    He tried imagining his mana as a salve for the body. A balm spread along his bruises like the one Siela had used to close his wounds when they were kids. Where was that tingling he associated with healing? He needed that warmth that fought off infection to melt away the ice.


    ¡°Five seconds remain!¡± Irem announced.


    Callam¡¯s efforts proved fruitless. Bitter cold continued to creep up his feet and down his arms. Unless something changed, everyone would see him falter. It was one thing to be looked down upon for elements outside his control. Dirty clothes. Unwashed hair. Criticisms around those stung¡ªhurt the part of him that craved to be enough¡ªbut survival had forced him to see them for what they were: circumstances treated as fault. It was another thing entirely to give the watching Seekers a reason to judge him. To let them think him lazy and unwilling to put in the required effort.


    I¡¯ll have to try something differ¡ª


    His muscles gave out. After sliding down the stalactite¡¯s length, he plopped to the floor, unable to move. Whatever natural strength his years on the streets had bestowed meant nothing when he lacked mana control.


    He missed his sister. The last time he¡¯d failed a task so simple as this, she¡¯d still been alive to cheer him up.


    ¡°Callam!¡± Iren said a few moments later, jogging up to where he was sitting on the ground. She offered him an arm. ¡°Up you go. Best you follow me so we can talk in private.¡±


    ~~~


    Deep in the Volin tunnels, Niles picked at the laystone in front of him. His hands were covered in crimson smears from torn calluses and he smelled of dirt. It tinged his face, got into his eyes and nose, and made it hard to breathe. Never had his throat felt so dry. The part of him that could still think in the heat knew how worrisome it was that less and less water slicked his brow with each passing hour.


    Shrugging, he returned to his duty. There were several wagons to fill before the end of the shift, and the Scriptors could not mine this type of rock on their own¡ªthe ichor in the ores was magic resistant.


    The workers at his sides showed no such dedication. They were not like him; they were weak men, with weak spirits. He could see it in their drooping heads. In the longer-than-needed breaks they took between their strikes. In the sluggish way they stood around when the taskmaster was not watching.


    What fools they are, Niles thought as he worked his pick into a crevice. The Poet accepts no heretic into her arms.


    What were these men but fateless Ruddites unwilling to recognize the consequences of their sins? Had the gods found them worthy, they would have born them to better blood. All they could do now was serve well.


    ¡°Miners lineup!¡± shouted foreman Griggs a little over an hour later as he inspected each workers¡¯ load in turn. Stopping by Niles, he nodded at the laystone in his cart. ¡°Well done.¡± No one else received accolades. ¡°Dinner is to be served at six o¡¯clock sharp. You are to carry your tools and equipment back to the barracks for maintenance. Latecomers will not be fed. You there,¡± he spat at an older, soot-covered boy. ¡°Grab Niles¡¯ pick. For his dedication, today he will carry the torch¡ªhere, son, lead the way.¡±


    Niles obliged, ignoring the Ruddite¡¯s angry stare. Shouldering his pack, he grabbed the light, and made for home.


    The mine¡¯s labyrinthine tunnels were blessedly cold.


    They pressed through in a hurry, carts in tow. Haggard and exhausted shoulders bent the tall men low on their march. To Niles, the Broken had looked more honorable than the rabble he now led.


    Even the laziest sheep yields wool, he reminded himself.


    Smells soon filled the massive cave that served as their quarters¡ªnot the warm, happy scents of bread and wine from back home, but the sour stench of latrines, unwashed bedding, and food served hastily with no care for heat or taste.


    A bell marked the start of dinner time.


    ¡°Out of my way!¡± commanded a loud man as they made for the que. ¡°Guards eat first.¡± Turning, Niles saw a tall, burly sentry approach¨Che had a nose too big for his face and carried a tome at his hip duller than the brown plate held in his hand.


    Niles stepped aside, throwing up an arm to stop his grumbling entourage. Men like this patrolled his Father¡¯s estate¡ªthey were the type to find pleasure in putting down those considered lesser.


    He respected that need to rule.


    Phiry, on the other hand, would have fought back. He could feel her fire in him even now. ¡°The rules allow miners to eat first,¡± she¡¯d have said, and would¡¯ve leveraged the family¡¯s power and titles for preferred treatment.


    She too is a fool. Fate had brought him here for a reason, and he would curse the Prophet before he doubted the gods¡¯ guidance.


    ¡°Move it, Ruddite!¡± the guard repeated, this time directing his ire at a small miner in the front of the line. The youth was short, wore a torn smock, and paid the man no attention, instead filling his bowl with the bone-marrow broth that passed for stew in these parts. It wasn''t until the sentry put his hands on the boy¡¯s shoulders, that he finally faced him.


    ¡°Only the tide cuts my line,¡± the Ruddite said quickly, pulling himself up to his full height. ¡°And that¡¯s Hans to you, bookblessed.¡±

 A turn for the worse

    Hey everyone,


    my health has taken a turn for the worse and I¡¯ve been going through several specialists to try and figure out what¡¯s going on. I¡¯m hopeful but scared. Should have an update by end of next month.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ill try my best to write as much as I can. But im also going to prioritize time with my family. I hope you understand.


    thanks for reading :) I love you alll


    random characters to fill in the minimum

 Chapter Forty-One: Answers at Last

    ¡°You say men cannot change.


    Yet judge a man by his wit,


    And a boy by how far he can spit.¡±


    ~Overheard at a Ruddite Tavern


    <hr>


    ¡°Callam, there is a common saying in the Western Isles,¡± Irem shared as the two of them walked the narrow corridor hugging the castle¡¯s main hall. ¡°The gods have tested you, and found nothing worthy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡ª¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± she demanded, her voice dropping to a whisper. A cold austerity cut through her features when she looked at him over her shoulder. ¡°We teachers heard Arlie¡¯s account of Binding Day firsthand. Of your hijacked grimoire.¡± Behind her, the ribbons of her robe whipped in the breeze coming from the nearby windows, snapping back and forth with each step she took. ¡°Do not deceive yourself. You¡¯ve strength and dexterity both, but lack the magical gifts needed for that spellbook. Even if placed among three-star tomebound, you¡¯d soon fall short.¡±


    Irem¡¯s words fell like a hammer on Callam¡¯s ears, and he felt a stiffness that had nothing to do with the morning¡¯s workout. He fought back a retort.


    How many teachers would look down upon him today? The stanzas claimed all ¡®Fated prospered in His light,¡¯ yet many still saw him as less than equal. Sure, he¡¯d struggled with mana absorption during the combat class, but any conclusion drawn from a single lesson would be folly.


    He said as much, once he trusted himself to speak calmly.


    Irem pursed her lips. ¡°This is not about feelings. It¡¯s about reality. In the Lighthouse, a wielder climbs or leaves. There is no in-between. While perseverance carries weight with me, it is clear to most that you are not up to the task.¡±


    So I¡¯m to quit?


    Callam kept the thought to himself, unwilling to betray his frustration. It was obvious by the way Irem crossed her arms that she had a point to make, and he wouldn''t play further into her hands.


    ¡°With you¡­ it is not so simple,¡± she said when it was evident he would not rise to the bait. ¡°Either you learn to wade these waters, or watch the Quellers take you to their depths.¡±


    ¡°Quellers?¡± He must have heard wrong.


    ¡°The very ones. War¡¯s about, Callam.¡± Irem stopped and turned to face him. Her gaze assured him how serious she was. ¡°We tomebound bear the weight of a nation, and many believe that responsibility extends to culling our weak.¡±


    ¡°To what purpose?¡± he managed through a dry throat¡ªearlier, he¡¯d have bet good copper the conversation was not heading in this direction. ¡°Grimoires can¡¯t be progressed after the wielder¡¯s death. Mine¡¯s no exception. They¡¯d get an empty book.¡±


    It was poor reasoning and he knew it.


    ¡°Not all kill to acquire power. Appearances matter. Many would sooner quiet those who¡¯d give our tomebound a bad name than allow any signs of frailty or impertinence. With your unusual binding, you¡¯ve a target on your head. Like it or not.¡±


    True. The Prophet only knows how far nobles will go to protect what¡¯s theirs.


    Whatever questions Callam had, he kept to himself. He understood Irem¡¯s logic and didn¡¯t need telling that she considered the matter concluded. With nothing more than a nod, she climbed the staircase at the end of the hall, leaving him to his spiraling thoughts.


    What was he to do about her warning?


    He pondered that question the whole way back through the castle¡¯s north corridor. The walk felt longer now that he was by himself. Lonely. No paperfowl cooed above; only his footsteps echoed off the walls. They sounded hollow against the stone. Finding himself pacing under a granite archway bisecting a mural of the Prophet, he stopped to flip through his spellbook.


    Less than fifteen minutes til second-period.


    Not nearly enough time to wash and change, but plenty to stare at the bandage around his Seedling¡¯s scar. The little piece of fabric had somehow held in place through the morning¡¯s training.


    Succeeded where he¡¯d failed.


    Callam¡¯s mood soured further. He shoved his hand into his pocket, tired. Tired of waiting for his Seedling to do something. Of falling short. For a moment he allowed himself to dwell on those feelings. Then he forced a smile, and rubbed some of the rock-dust off his shirt.


    He¡¯d survived worse. Irem was right that no matter how hard he tried, his magic did not work as intended.


    That would not stop him.


    He¡¯d already come this far¡ªsurvived Binding Day, made friends, faced death. Even found a place that finally felt like home.


    This is just another chance to stand tall where others falt¡ª


    ¡°Callam!¡± The sound of Lenora¡¯s breathless voice reached him before she did. Looking up, he saw her clutching a bookbag stuffed with clothes and stationary; its contents were askew as if she¡¯d changed in such a hurry she¡¯d forgotten to fix everything nicely. ¡°I worried¡­¡± Red tinged her cheeks and she seemed to catch herself. ¡°We¡¯ve note-taking and history next. Talk about a bore.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Professor Irem wanted to give me some pointers, is all.¡± The lie came out before he could stop it.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Lenora raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°I¡¯m to put in some extra hours.¡± That part was true, at least. He¡¯d need to practice if he hoped to keep up.


    By the glance she gave him, he¡¯d have done better trying to bluff her in a game of Seeker¡¯s Talent. Still¡­ she did not push the issue while they walked to class, and for that he was grateful¨Cdoubly so since she knew where they needed to go. To him, the castle¡¯s twisting halls, dark tapestries, and vaulted walls were more maze than map.


    ~~~


    ¡°Settle down, all,¡± said Professor Wisewick, an elderly woman with a stern face and more nostril than even the crankiest, most ancient Sisters at the chapelward. Only her upturned lips hinted at a deeper kindness¡ªa warmth their note-taking teacher had lacked.


    That man¡¯s wooden switch had been quick to correct bad form.


    ¡°One-stars in the back. Fours in the front,¡± Wiswick instructed, pointing a wand to the sixty or so desks spanning her classroom. ¡°I trust you¡¯re smart enough to figure out the rest. History,¡± she added, emphasizing the statement with a sweeping gesture, ¡°is where legends meet fact. It is not a study for the faint of heart, for the superstitious, or for the common man. Indeed, any education spent on a Ruddite is an education wasted. An empty head is filled faster with sermons than sense.¡±


    Callam stopped halfway to his chair, unable to believe his ears.


    Did she really¡­ ?


    The incredulous look he shot around the class confirmed he alone was taken aback by Wisewick¡¯s attitude. Everyone else was settling into their seats as if this were all normal. Even Lenora appeared unfazed, and she was freeman, not noble. Though her expression did seem darker than usual.


    I guess it''s no more heretical than Nahnie speaking freely of the Poet¡¯s Plight.


    Such casual impiety was still a lot to take in, and it weighed on his mind while he sank into the seat left of Lenora¨Cso much of what tomebound said openly would be a hangable offense if expressed by a commoner.


    He tried getting comfortable.


    The chair¡¯s wood made it impossible. It dug into his back, and there was little space on the desk for him to take notes. Writing, thankfully, had proved relatively easy for him to pick up.


    ¡°Not that we are pagans,¡± their professor remarked, and a line titled The Fated Few: a History of the Prophets¡¯ Magic filled the green slate on the far side of the room. ¡°It is our duty to filter through the drab the archivists drag out from the Roots and decide which truths hold merit. Remember, prejudice is needed most when dealing with those who tell no lies.¡± Tapping a three-star tomebound on the shoulder with her wand, she asked, ¡°Venture a guess as to why?¡±


    ¡°Huh? Um, well,¡± sputtered the boy¨CCallam realized he was the taller of the two who¡¯d grabbed him that morning. ¡°Because, I¡­¡±


    ¡°Wiser words are rarely shared,¡± Wisewick interrupted. ¡°Best to keep such gems to yourself, eh? What about you?¡± This time her wand shot across the room, circling twice before nudging an annoyed Airster in the arm. ¡°Thoughts?¡±


    The distracted noble did not flinch. ¡°Any fool can tell you the thief hangs while thinking his reasons true,¡± he said, without looking away from the young woman he¡¯d been whispering to.


    ¡°Exactly right.¡± Wisewick smiled. ¡°The archivists here specialize in records¡ªdeciphering the intent behind what is written. No faulty ledgers, or intentional discrepancies escapes their notice. Yet it is obvious that all history is tainted by the author¡¯s pen. A rabblerouser from the south could, for instance, bribe a scribe into sharing her story. Every word uttered might be her truth, but we¡¯d know better than to trust her tales.¡±


    ¡°What better tools do we have, professor?¡± asked a brunette seated a few rows behind Lenora. Out of the corner of his eye, Callam noticed she clutched a two-star tome, its cover adorned by a shining sun.


    ¡°A hand should be raised before speaking,¡± Wisewick warned, continuing only after the girl had done as asked. ¡°Good question, but it''s one we¡¯ll explore another time. We¡¯ve delayed enough. Let¡¯s start at the beginning: the Prophet¡¯s war began with fire¡­¡±


    The hour passed more quickly than Callam could have imagined.


    At first he¡¯d feared he would be bored, but the more their professor spoke, the more fascinated he became. It wasn¡¯t just the material that kept his focus¡ªmuch of the lecture covered scriptures every chapel kid had memorized¡ªit was the presentation. With a flick of the wand, their professor brought the Sculpting to life on the slate, where Callam watched stone break as the gods carved Lorynthal from the sea to keep man safe from the tides. A similar swish rendered an image of Tellen¨Cthe god of Fate¨Cmolding the prophets from the world tree¡¯s bark.


    The deity¡¯s mouth even moved when Wisewick recited the commandments he¡¯d shared:


    ¡°To the First, greatest among you, wield our power to defend your walls.¡±


    ¡°To the Second, kindest of souls, bring prosperity to your halls.¡±


    ¡°To the Third, wayward of three, find your purpose to bring meaning to all.¡±


    Callam hung to every word. Much of this was new to him.


    Not everyone was so enraptured by the presentation. By the time their professor reached the start of the Beast War, Lenora had taken to yawning to stay awake¡ªshe¡¯d placed her bookbag upon her lap, propped an elbow on it, and rested her chin in her hand in an effort to keep her mouth closed.


    ¡°The gods, in their wisdom, used the last of their strength to build the lighthouses that bridge heaven with mankind,¡± Wisewick said, continuing her hour-long monologue. ¡°They tasked us to light the beacons and return them to earth. Yet the Prophets were betrayed¡­ the Third, in a bout of rage, consorted with the Winged One to kill the Second. Tell me, four-star tomebound, how the true Prophet responded?¡±


    Callam didn¡¯t know, so he nudged Lenora with his shoe. When she said nothing, he did so again.


    Less gently.


    ¡°Was it not then that he scoured the Far Away for another to take the fallen¡¯s place?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Brains and beauty. Good. That he did. Blessed is he that he found his Poet. She was his disciple. First among the Ruddites to bind and breathe in magic¡­¡±


    Lenora scrunched her nose up playfully in Callam¡¯s direction.


    He didn¡¯t see it¡ªcouldn¡¯t have.


    His whole attention was on his bandaged finger. Poet¡¯s hand, but his Seedling burned.

 Chapter Forty-Two: Character Flaws

    What is about a good book that moves us?


    The spoken word can strike fear, kindle hope, stir longing,


    Yet the only magic I¡¯ve ever found,


    Is between two worn pages.


    ~~ Critic Viel, on the nature of fiction


    <hr>


    Callam decided to feign being sick.


    This wasn¡¯t his first time lying to get out of a lecture. Of course, those talkings-to had been deserved, handed out by the Sisters when he¡¯d arrived past curfew, or been sloppy with his chores.


    It was his first time leaving class early. The Sisters had only held lessons on Sundays, and Siela had loved learning. Out of respect for her memory, he¡¯d attended them religiously after she¡¯d passed.


    ¡°Permission to be excused, professor?¡± he asked, feeling every bit like a Ruddite. Tomebound weren¡¯t known for seeking leave to use the washroom. ¡°Something didn¡¯t sit well with me.¡±


    Several people laughed, Airster among them. Lenora gave him a searching look, somewhere between worried and amused.


    Callam did not care. Better he sounded simple than yell out in pain. Tapping his foot against the ground, he forced himself not to glance at his hand¨Cwith each passing second, he became more certain his flesh would melt.


    ¡°Second bell is in under half an hour,¡± Wisewick replied, her focus still on the slate. ¡°Best be quick if you¡¯re to make it bac¨C¡±


    He was out the door before she finished her sentence, heart racing.


    The facilities were near the commissary, so he rushed that way, ducking into a bright enclave hidden behind a hanging tapestry. Without stopping to secure the curtains, he ripped the cloth free from his finger.


    The pain dulled; he slumped as relief flooded through him.


    Where moments before his skin had throbbed worse than if he¡¯d run it under boiling water, now his finger felt cool to the touch. If anything, the puckered scar looked like it had shrunk.


    That realization invited a new wave of panic.


    A quick pull of the curtains trailing down the room¡¯s one window confirmed the Seedling hadn¡¯t dimmed¨Cby his eye it glowed as brightly as ever, illuminating all four corners of the nook¡¯s floor.


    He released a held breath.


    What triggered it, then? The fabric? He didn¡¯t need Siela¡¯s mind to know that didn¡¯t make sense¨Cthe Seedling had been covered for the better part of the morning without issue.


    Is it sensitive to¡­ history? Callam would have chuckled, had the memory of his earlier agony not been so bright in his mind. Yet, silly as it seemed, Seedlings were said to listen in, and he felt certain his had already helped translate spells for him.


    Yes.


    Perhaps he was onto something¡­ though no wishtales spoke of Seedlings causing pain. At least not the ones he¡¯d heard. None spoke of unbound finding them either. It wasn¡¯t an encouraging thought.


    Well, there was one easy way to find out.


    After stopping at the lavatory to wash his hands¨Ccommitment was key to any act¨CCallam replaced his bandage and rushed back to class. Now was not the time to dally. Taking too long would only invite speculation from Lenora and everyone else, and also risk more people figuring out his secret.


    That the elders already knew was troublesome enough.


    Tonight though¡­ tonight he¡¯d sneak off and do more research. Assuming this next test bears no fruit.  There was a reason the stanzas warned that ¡°riches unread made starving men¡±¨Ctoo much mystery could consume a person.


    Callam shuddered.


    He¡¯d seen it happen to the chapelward¡¯s foundlings: those abandoned by their families would ask questions that held no good answers. The not-knowing would inevitably haunt them. Poison their lives until obsession replaced reason.


    Siela was right, he realized. We were the lucky ones.


    ¡°... First and Second¡¯s magic was drained by the third, " Wisewick was saying as he made his way back in his seat. She¡¯d taken up some chalk and was writing notes over her own magicked mosaic. ¡°You¡¯ve learned the rest. The Poet, in an act of despair, set against the Winged One on the Tower¡¯s summit with her newly bound tome, and by the gods¡¯ will, her magic brought the storm. Blood poured from the beast. Or, at least, that¡¯s the current theory. Archivists argue the point¡ªearly scripts use the word for ink and blood interchangeability. Just another reason why the records are fallible.¡± This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    A flurry of movement behind Callam indicated that a student had raised her hand. He took the chance to copy Lenora¡¯s notes, all the while waiting for something to happen to his scar.


    Nothing did.


    Other than a light headache, he felt fine while listening to Wisewick¡¯s lecture and trying to decipher Lenora¡¯s scribbles. For some reason he¡¯d expected the Freemen¡¯s notes to be more tidy.


    Class went on, and he¡¯d about given up on his history theory related to the Seedling when the second bell rang. Sixty chairs scraped on the floor at once, his own bumping up against a nearby desk.


    ¡°We¡¯ll continue on the third Prophet¡¯s fall and the Poet¡¯s ascendence next week. No homework, although you¡¯re each to pick up a copy of Treaties and Chronicles of the First Binding for the semester¡¯s reading. A truly riveting work, you¡¯ll find. Touches on¡ª¡±


    A jolt of pain came back bright and quick, and Callam stumbled while reaching for his bag.


    The hour¡¯s notes slipped from his hands.


    ¡°What sickness makes you trip?¡± Lenora whispered, kneeling next to him to help clean up the mess. She stacked the pile neatly together, then pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. ¡°Moose says all men lie. I say he¡¯s wrong.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± At least the pain was manageable this time; already it had started to fade.


    ¡°I say all men lie badly.¡± She threw him a mischievous smile that set his heart racing again. ¡°So? Which is it? Spell feedback, or something else¡­?¡±


    ¡°Neither,¡± he said, choosing his next words carefully. Why was she so good at reading him? ¡°A bit of both.¡±


    Then, unwilling to say more on the topic, he thanked her for the papers and began packing quickly.


    ¡°They misnamed you, Seeker.¡± She stood up and, in a surprising impression of Wisewick¡¯s voice, added, ¡°We fated search for the truth. Not obscure it.¡±


    ¡°We chapelward are known for finding and hiding things.¡±


    ¡°Mm. Things that aren¡¯t yours, I¡¯d wager.¡± She said it so casually he couldn¡¯t help but laugh. Yet, when she looked him in the eyes, there was more in her expression than mirth. There was something he couldn¡¯t place.


    Not until he remembered Moose''s earlier warning.


    She hates liars.


    The bell rang again and shouts filled the hallways. Seconds later, students from the next period began to filter in the room.


    ¡°Puzzlework¡¯s next, right?¡± Callam asked, trying to change the subject. Of all of today¡¯s classes, this one excited him most¨Cboth because his streetwise skill should give him a knack for it, and because it was their last indoor one for the day. Afterwards, they were to team up and explore the Tower¡¯s first floor.


    Lenora adjusted her satchel, then tilted her head to the door.


    He took it as an invitation to join her. Together, they walked quietly to the castle¡¯s farthest wing. This time the silence between them was not nearly as comfortable.


    ~~~


    What are the makings of man?


    So read the chalkboard floating upside down in the center of the wing¡¯s highest chamber. Class had already begun, though their professor had yet to make an appearance.


    Callam was not complaining. The awkwardness between Lenora and him had dissipated the moment they¡¯d entered the room¡ªthey¡¯d spent the last five minutes perusing with everyone else.


    Eccentricities abounded.


    Along one wall hung a series of broken instruments carved into weapons. He was unfamiliar with most of them, but the long, silver flute did make for a respectable spear. The drum masquerading as a helmet on its left?


    Not so much.


    Though¡­ it did look to be a decent shield from the hundreds of playing cards whizzing through the air¨Cthey shot this way and that, ruffling hair and diving under chairs, each easily recognizable from a deck of Seeker¡¯s Talent. While at first the commoners seemed content to chase one another, eventually they joined together to form a bridge over which a copy of the Prophet and Poet walked. That spectacle then floated around the room, before coming to a stop above five shells set spiral-side-down on the floor.


    Of those five, the smallest shell was the only common one. Coral pink, it stood in stark contrast to the largest specimen, a lime green behemoth that dwarfed the broken harp and excuded the fierce scent of sea. The middle shell was even more unusual¡ªwith its retractable beak it could have passed for an oceanstrider. Bored students had already taken to teasing the mandible with their quills, causing the spike to shoot up and down with considerable force.


    Callam found it all fascinating.


    The other four-star tomebound were not so easily impressed. ¡°Is this, eh¡­ common?¡± asked Feliv from Combat Training. ¡°In Vialis, we do not wait on professors.¡± He smiled politely, though he directed his question solely at Lenora.


    It was hard for Callam not to feel ignored.


    ¡°In the South, such delays are rude,¡± voiced Tige. Like Feliv, she¡¯d rejoined them after disappearing during the last period, and was currently eying the shells, annoyed. ¡°Our late lose face.¡¯¡±


    Lenora shrugged, clearly a little uncomfortable. ¡°Maybe our schedules updated?¡±


    A quick ruffle through her tome confirmed their planners had stayed the same. Yet their professor remained absent while the minutes crawled by.


    What¡¯s going on?


    Hadn¡¯t they been told over and over again how important their education was, given the uptick in invading beast waves? Surely, their Puzzlework Professor wouldn¡¯t miss a lecture with all that was at stake. Or take the time to set up the floating chalkboard, strange shells, and broken instruments.


    None of it made sense. Unless¡­


    Something in Callam¡¯s mind clicked. Rushing up to the nearest shell, he put his ear to it. Hopefully, this worked. Else he¡¯d look the lackwitt.


    The soft sound of ocean waves rang through the room.

 Chapter Forty-Three: A Broken Mind

    "Only a fool spends money saving face."


    ~~Mephra Page, Freemen President


    <hr>


    That arrogant bastard.


    Sebastian stared at the earthenware bowl in front of him, appetite souring. Again that chapelward had made him look the fool. It was bad enough that he had to suffer the Tower and its food¡ªnow he''d been swindled in cards by a commoner. By a cheat, he corrected himself.


    ¡°I¡¯m off for seconds,¡± shouted a male at the end of the table. Similar sounds of enthusiasm from his neighbors drove Sebastian to take a bite.


    The soup burned his tongue.


    Scorching broth, served with a cold spoon. A mockery of etiquette, and one of many reasons why he hated it here. His thirdborn peers back home were acting as they should: staying away from the Tower, dancing and dining at the capital, and vying for power. Frequently and vigorously. Each had received scripted grimoires strong enough to run their estates.


    The low royals among them were even bestowed four-star tomes.


    Yet, here he was¡ªrisking his life to progress a three-star spellbook so his father could secure more power for the family. Two fresh tomes, the ones wielded by his brothers, hadn''t satiated the Scriptor¡¯s greed, and he''d insisted his thirdborn bind blindly as well. No consideration had been given to Sebastian¡¯s wishes, or to the family¡¯s bloodline, which got weaker with each subsequent child and made binding more dangerous.


    Mother''s begging didn¡¯t change his mind either.


    She''d tried everything to spare him the ceremony. First, he¡¯d heard her say it wasn¡¯t proper¡ªthe Prophet did not want thirds to climb. Then she¡¯d argued it wasn¡¯t fashionable for a young noble, and finally she¡¯d claimed he was too sweet-tempered for the ink to take.


    His father had not given in.


    Instead, Sebastian had spent five days in the infirmary, waiting for the Scriptor to visit after he¡¯d somehow survived the ceremony.


    The crows have him.


    Bitter and hungry, Sebastian stood and dropped his napkin into the uneaten soup. His sword-hand shook as he made for the kitchens south of the commissary. This meal would not do¡ªhe needed meat if he was to recover from his encounter with his father¡¯s blade. So the Tower¡¯s one-star cooks thought themselves chefs, did they?


    He¡¯d put them to the test.


    A group of first-years crowded the far end of his bench when he returned from the kitchens, tray full with fresh greens, curried carrots, and spiced lamb. He¡¯d been right¡ªa bit of yelling was exactly what the help needed to learn how to season food.


    ¡°Slightfiend Keeper spotted on floor three,¡± called out a blond girl to his left, the tile in her hand clinking as she placed it into position. ¡°Melin, it''s your roll.¡± Slim and heart-faced, she struck Sebastian as pretty for a merchant¡ªmost of them could pass for a mare and stunk worse than a horse. Her group was mid-round in Tilted Tiles, a game meant to teach climbers about the monsters on the first twelve floors.


    A game he¡¯d no patience for.


    The girl must not have realized. ¡°Join us?¡± she asked, catching his eye and smiling. ¡°We¡¯re waiting on one, and have space for two.¡±


    He nearly snorted.


    Climbing the lighthouse was bad enough already without spending his leisure hours playing pretend. Withdrawing a knife, he began cubing his food.


    ¡°Next time, then¨Cah! Zallorin. Finally, you¡¯ve made it!¡±


    Sebastian¡¯s eyes snapped up from his plate. Surely, he¡¯d heard wrong. Yet there the broad-shouldered royal was, bookbag and all. It was an impossibility¡ªQueenskin didn¡¯t mix with petty nobles and commoners¡ªand an opportunity. No mage in their right mind would force a son with royal ties to climb.


    Not even Scriptor Writ.


    ¡°I¡¯ve second-year river magic,¡± Sebastian blurted out before the group could withdraw their invitation. Gathering his tray, he moved next to the pretty merchant. ¡°Have you extra witches¡¯ dice? I¡¯d use my own, but left them in my suite.¡± Sure, it was a tactless flaunt of his family¡¯s wealth, but a necessary one, so he winked to drive home the point. Anything to appear more the flirt and less the sycophant.


    Father would be proud. For all his faults, the man was no fool.


    Sebastian wished he could say as much about himself. Grabbing the ivory dice offered to him, he rolled a six. At once the cornered Slightfiend reared on its hind feet and howled. Poison-filled spittle flew from its mouth¡ªdice throws were still as close an approximation of the Tower beasts¡¯ random attacks as they had.


    His miniature would not be outdone.


    It cast a copy of his most-powerful spell: undea temun sa ty nunci ventis. Water flooded the tiles below the beast and waves shook the stack¡¯s walls. Small pops followed by tendrils of vapor indicated the liquid had begun to boil. With a splash, the Slightfiend lost its footing and fell in.


    Sebastian grinned.


    In his head though, his own words taunted him. That same phrase he¡¯d uttered a month ago repeated itself over and over again, as it always did whenever he had fun: If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Save the boy first!¡±


    Gods, but he¡¯d met Ruddites less stupid. Had he just told Orsal to hold off, the orphan bastard would have died. His first culling would have been a success, and he wouldn¡¯t have lost all of his father¡¯s respect. Better still, he¡¯d be up a rhymer.


    That was an entire day¡¯s spending money.


    ¡°Any here practitioners?¡± he asked the group. ¡°Healers and lyricsts are needed to survive the fourth floor.¡±


    Two hands shot up across the bench.


    Fifteen minutes later, and it was his turn to roll again. He¡¯d just tossed the dice when an urgent tap sent pain lacing down his arm. ¡°Careful!¡± he snapped, before calming himself¡ªit was only some first-year trying for his attention.


    ¡°S-seeker Writ?¡± Stout and balding, the messenger had a stutter that gave away his low-star rating. In different company, Sebastian would have ignored the runner. Not today though. Today, he couldn¡¯t afford to be rude.


    ¡°Speaking.¡±


    ¡°Scriptor Olenid wants to see you. Said ¡®you¡¯d know what about.¡¯ ¡±


    Sebastian did not, in fact, know what it was about. But he wasn¡¯t going to admit as much. ¡°You¡¯re to ferry me, then?¡±


    A tilt of the chin from the boy, and Sebastian glanced back at his group. ¡°Burn the weeds first, before engaging the Keeper. Else she¡¯ll call her young. Presspick, Felt, Seafare, Wickwind, Queenskin.¡± He nodded to each player in turn. ¡°Thanks for the game. Grab me for the next one.¡±


    He¡¯d been careful to use their surnames. Titles mattered. Especially to the highborn.


    The runner led the way, and he followed. What could the Head Riddleist want from me?


    ~~~


    ¡°Yes, Yes. Come in. And close the door behind you, before my dandelions try to escape.¡±


    Dandelions? The weed?


    Sebastian knew the kook in front of him was going insane, but to think the sunken-eyed professor had fallen so far as to believe his plants sentient? It almost invited pity. Almost. Only last year, this man had given their orientation speech. He¡¯d then proceeded to lead the ascent on the eighteenth floor, fighting so well some had called him the Prophet¡¯s prodigy.


    The country¡¯s last hope, even.


    Now the dumpy man looked like he¡¯d aged ten years. He¡¯d quit climbing; instead, he raised plants and played with paper cranes. Sebastian could see him folding a black dragon right now, each crease molding the body from paper. Four smaller creations fluttered around the battered brown coat he¡¯d hung off his guest chair.


    ¡°Do you expect it to move on its own? The door, that is.¡± The Scriptor had spoken so softly it had been hard to hear him. He did not look up from his desk, nor did his hands stop working on his project.


    ¡°Of course not.¡± A hard shove and the heavy oak slammed shut¡ªa little more loudly than was necessary.


    ¡°...not all questions are rhetorical, you know. Who¡¯s to say the wood has lost its spring?¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°The Worldtree¡¯s heart beats. This we know. Yet we assume our doors are dead? A logical oversight, maybe¡­¡±


    Sebastian¡¯s cheek twitched. How was he to respond? This man was a nut, fit for the nursery.


    ¡°No matter.¡± At last Professor Olenid put down his finished paper mache. The little dragon tried to blow fire, only to char its mouth instead. ¡°Rote informed me he¡¯s in need of another second-year to oversee the firsts. I¡¯ve put you up for it.¡±


    ¡°I¨Cimpossible, but thank you. Father needs me to¡ª¡°


    Wind slammed into Sebastian, stealing his breath and shattering a nearby terrarium. His coat whipped behind him like a sail, and he felt certain his bookbag¡¯s strap would break. To the noble¡¯s horror, his body betrayed him next: his legs began moving backwards all on their own. The professor, in direct contrast, seemed wholly unperturbed by the gale. He picked up a fresh sheet of paper, then another one when the first ripped in half. It was clear by the set of his shoulders that he considered the conversation finished.


    Sebastian did not agree.


    Again he tried to speak. His lungs burned, so he settled for the next best thing: cursing this lunatic in his mind.


    Should he be given anyone to lead but Zallorin, he¡¯d take this farce straight to the headmaster.


    ~~~


    Callam


    To the first-years¡¯ credit, they quickly caught onto what was happening in the classroom. Many seemed content to stand by and watch, though not all. Lenora was the first to reach him¡ªwithin moments she was kneeling by his side, her ear to the largest shell.


    Callam couldn¡¯t blame her for leaving the spiky one to someone else.


    After a few more chimes, the room quieted, only for a crash to catch them all by surprise. The flute had fallen onto the drum-helmet. It was as clear a sign as any that the instruments played a role in the second stage of the riddle. He was sure of it.


    How, though?


    Apart from looking like weapons, there was nothing too unusual about them. They were broken¡ªthat realization had spurred him to listen to the seashells in the first place.


    To find a novel source of music.


    Lenora seemed equally confused. ¡°The makings of¡­¡± Her nose crinkled. She tried to lift the massive shell by its spire, and failing to do so, bit her lip. ¡°What if¡­¡± she started, only to trail off again.


    He tried not to stare.


    Focus. This wasn¡¯t any different than the Seedling¡¯s challenge or the second trial. An obvious solution had to exist.


    Must it?


    The military Scriptor had warned that puzzles in the Tower came with higher stakes and greater difficulty. The first couldn¡¯t apply here¡ªthey were perfectly safe and under no time constraints¡ªso Callam had to assume the second part was true. This would prove no simple task.


    He had to be the first to solve it.


    Scanning around for any other hints, his eyes settled on the cards drifting near the shelf in the room¡¯s far corner. He approached swiftly, content to leave the chalkboard to Lenora.


    The cards refused to be caught.


    They bit at his hands and shot between his legs. One sliced his ear. For the first time in a long while, he felt uncoordinated. Sore. An orphan again, jumping for thrown change during Wintersail. The rest of the four-stars were sure to start staring at him soon, if they hadn''t already. Heat climbed the back of his neck. A big part of him wished to curse the constructs¡ªto see if his spell would stun them. Only fear of backlash kept him from doing so.


    Crow¡¯s foot! This was a waste of effort.


    A pleasant, tingly feeling that had nothing to do with embarrassment tickled his core. It was his streetwise talent, telling him he was onto something.


    If not these cards, then wha¡ª?


    The mid-hour bells tolled. Immense pressure followed. Callam could barely think. Struggled to stand. All around him, Tomebound groaned. Lenora gasped and fell to the floor. He was half-certain his own bones would splinter.


    Scratching sounds cut through the clamor. The chalkboard! he realized, just managing to squint upwards. He could not move his neck.


    One word had been scribbled under the prompt.


    Misery.


    The first making of man.

 Chapter Forty-Four: Footsteps

    Chapter 45 should be out Sat or Sunday, due to some doctors appointments.


    Act III


    Humanity


    We credit age with wisdom,


    With greys and wearied sight,


    But it is just a trick of time,


    To see complexity,


    In what is black and white.


    ~~ Malfien, Rebelrouser


    <hr>


    I envy them.


    To live a life barren of responsibility,


    Empty-headed and single-minded


    Is that not what every artist wants?


    What every zealot dreams?


    ~~On the Freedom of Ruddites, Chapter Three.


    <hr>


    Lenora was still doubled over in pain.


    She wasn¡¯t the only one¨CCallam could see more rattled students than occupied seats. Wooden chairs had been shoved against the walls as Seekers stood up in anger or toppled back when the pain became too nauseating to maintain balance.


    One such chair stood bookended between a pair of shelves, teetering on hind legs and spindles. Its owner lay beside it, clutching her head, chin to chest.


    She¡¯d been one of the unlucky ones.


    The majority of students had never been seated in the first place, intent on treating the class as a free period. Ironically, these Tomebound seemed to be in best shape; they¡¯d already picked themselves up, and were now collecting their fallen belongings. One and all, they were a sea of scowls.


    ¡°Who¡¯s cruel idea of a joke is this?¡± one female student snapped, to a corus of agreement. More faces darkened by the second.


    Callam tried to understand their anger, but found thinking difficult. Slow and drawn out. Sluggish as day old porridge. Looking around he noticed that, of those who¡¯d tried for a solution, he alone had regained his feet. Meaning it was on him to search the chalkboard for any hints. If he could just get to¨C


    He tripped.


    Head pounding, he caught himself on the back of a desk and settled for reading from a distance. Misery¨Cthere the word was, directly under the teacher¡¯s prompt. He hadn¡¯t been imagining it.


    Misery.


    So the riddle was taunting them. Why? The obvious answer was because they¡¯d failed to finish the puzzle in time. Ran out the clock. It was only a guess, of course¨Cin his state, he couldn¡¯t be certain of anything. Massaging his temples wasn¡¯t helping either.


    Would banging his head on the edge of a desk? He¡¯d do it, if it would clear his mind.


    Think. What did this all mean?


    There had to be a reason behind the madness. It was no simple thing to claim misery a making of man¨Cyet nothing in this room hinted at such a conclusion. Not the cards, the shells, nor the broken instruments. Nor could it be coincidence that those who¡¯d tried for a solution were in the worst shape. What had he missed?


    More importantly, why did it smell so pungent? It wasn¡¯t him¨C-he¡¯d done that before, during his first robbery for the Sootskins. The smell had brought warmth, then. Warmth greater than that of the snowbank he¡¯d huddled against when the blows fell.


    What it hadn¡¯t brought was the taste of bone.


    Can¡¯t be... Glancing up confirmed it wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d thought. Whatever grand mage had dreamt up these ceilings had clearly not slept well the night before. The rafters were painted the stark white of an infirmary¨Cthe cloud white of chalk, or whatever powdery substance was now falling onto the students in waves.


    No one was spared this time. All sneezed or gagged. Callam¡¯s eyes burned.


    ¡°Thintomed bastard,¡± someone swore. ¡°To skip class, then¨C.¡±


    Whatever follow-up curses the Seeker had prepared were lost to the sounds of the doors flying open. Dust swirled again, eliciting more coughs. No additional directions were scribbled on the board. They didn¡¯t need to be. Everyone knew class was dismissed.


    Only time would tell if Wednesday¡¯s hung in the balance too.


    Feliv¡¯s laughter sung through the room, melodic in that way only a Vialis¡¯s voice could be. ¡°Better...¡± He spat onto the floor next to where he lay, pushed himself into a sitting position, and tried again. ¡°Better this than a wishtale, no?¡± His was an act so common¨Cso inappropriate for a noble¨CCallam almost missed how it shattered the rising tension. ¡°Tell me,¡± the noble made another choking sound,¡°what secrets did the¡­ water stones keep? Stones is the right word, no?¡±


    ¡°Shells.¡± Instead of ignoring the boy as he¡¯d earlier been ignored, Callam offered him a hand up. Workmen''s calluses met his grip in further confirmation the tomebound was more than he let on. More than some foreign dignitary playing pretend with poor vocabulary. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Too bad I too can act the fool.


    ¡°And they only share tales of the sea...¡± His voice trailed off as Lenora¨Chaving found her feet, but not her balance¨Cstumbled into him and took him by the arm. Soft fingers brushed against the crook of his elbow, held on long enough to share their heat, then withdrew as if burned by his touch.


    Where Callam¡¯s head had just hurt now his mind stuttered.


    ¡°I¡ª¡± Lenora said, red tinging the corners of her cheeks, a small furrow hinting she was still in pain. ¡°Should have waited a moment.¡± She teetered once, and he instinctively moved to help her.


    Feliv got there first. Quicker than a cutpurse, he slid an arm around her back. ¡°Steady. Steady. Small steps, yes? His words were measured, reassuring¨Cpatronizing, Callam decided. Those of a highborn calming a mare. Not words of courtship.


    Or so Callam hoped.


    A horse-whistle argued otherwise. The grateful look Lenora gave Feliv when he brushed her clean of the chalk only made things worse, as did the way her fingers curled around his sleeve.


    She doesn¡¯t have to hang on him like that.


    Callam buried the thought. Jealousy had no place among friends, and Lenora was not his to keep. Fixing his best grin, he said. ¡°Feliv¡¯s right. Some lesson, huh?¡± The smile felt hollow on his lips, yet he kept it until it stuck.


    ¡°Can¡¯t say we learned much,¡± grumbled a tall student exiting the class.


    That certainly wasn¡¯t true; failure was a constant teacher. Still, seeing no reason to argue, Callam followed the boy through the door and into the hallway, with the noble and freeman taking up the rear. He tried not to brood¨CSiela had hated when men did that¨Cbut he wanted to hear from Lenora. Certain lines couldn¡¯t be crossed, and he¡¯d come dangerously close to breaching one.


    He just hoped he hadn¡¯t been too obvious about it. That she hadn¡¯t responded did not bode well.


    ¡°Callam?¡± She finally spoke up.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Moose is in the commissary.¡±


    ¡°Kind of requires food to be called that, doesn¡¯t it?¡± he joked, continuing to the dormitory. ¡°Can¡¯t imagine there¡¯s much left.¡± A glimpse of his smile on a passing window confirmed it looked natural. After a moment, he realized it felt normal now too. Warm and unstrained. Who wouldn¡¯t want to spend time with a best friend after¡ª


    ¡°¡­ shall we go eat? You are hungry right?¡±


    Oh. Turning, he found her standing on her own, eyebrows lifted in confusion. Feliv stood a few feet away, his expression souring.


    ¡°Care to join us?¡± she asked him.


    ¡°The, em, fare does not suit me. I¡¯ll feed outside with Tige and meet you later, yes?¡±


    ¡°It''s a plan.¡± Moving aside, she let him pass her. Only once he was out of earshot, did she whisper, ¡°Ready to raid the kitchens?¡±


    ¡°You just sai¨C?¡±


    ¡°We needed privacy, and he needed a meal free of those allergens he complained all morning about. A win, win, I think.¡± Her eyes gleamed mischievously. ¡°Besides, it''s no lie. The two spaces are connected¨Conly one carries baking ash, though. I couldn¡¯t care less why ¡®misery is a making of man,¡¯ but I¡¯d love to know why we¡¯ve been powered down.¡±


    Baking ash? Callam had spent years helping the Sisters cook, and never once had heard of it. He kept that to himself, though¨CFreemen handled meals for a city¡¯s worth of hungry mouths, not just thirty or so odd orphans.


    Lenora''s arched eyebrow was proof he¡¯d hesitated for too long. Leaning in as if to share a secret, she said. ¡°If you prefer, we could join Feliv outside. Go grifting as snowmen. Tinning pays poorly, perhaps. But¡­ caroling?¡±


    ~~~


    A symphony of pots floated through the kitchen, hissing and clattering as different liquids boiled and popped. Half a dozen metal drums added their music, filling with greens, swirling their contents, and flipping the washed vegetables onto receiving cutting boards. Grains made up the refrain, sliding down a silo so large it connected the first and third floors


    Three one-star tomebound tended to the roast. Pork and onions sizzled. How they avoided sneaking bites, Callam had no idea¨Che¡¯d always done so on the rare occasion the chapel had meat.


    And that jerky could have passed for ship rations. The smells here had him salivating.


    ¡°Lila, I¡¯d better not see you using those hands!¡± Shouted a thin, towering woman toward the back of the mess, in what felt like a cosmic answering of Callam¡¯s question. ¡°You¡¯re no Ruddite, girl, no matter how much you emulate them. Think. No, do not touch that mop! Put your grimoire to use.¡±


    The object of the woman¡¯s ministrations was an unfortunate looking tomebound stationed at a grill. Her hair looked sweaty even at a distance, and she¡¯d just spilled a vat of oil.


    Callam pitied her. That stuff burned.


    ¡°You both,¡± the chef called out while walking over to them, ¡°Can¡¯t you see? Commissary¡¯s that way!¡¯ Very much not under her breath, she added. ¡°Goodness, what¡¯s this kingdom coming to? Beasts, and students who act¨C¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re hoping to be directed to your stores of ammonia powder?¡± Lenora interrupted.


    ¡°Oh!¡± The woman¡¯s expression changed in an instant to a wide grin. She readjusted her bun. ¡°So soon? Olenid wagered it would take the full month. The Prophet¡¯s chosen doesn¡¯t know everything, afterall. Gave me good odds too, the fool. After me.¡±


    Together, they ducked between some floating cutlery, then pushed aside a tapestry of the Poet at battle with the Winged One. Blue eyes locked with black.


    Food stores greeted them, the scale of which put every market Callam had ever visited to shame. Crates of and jars of pickled greens formed perfect stacks to the ceiling. Slabs of cured beef, sacks of spices, and the odd citrus fruit filled every available shelf. In one corner, salt rocks sat unprocessed. In another, flour had covered the floor. Child-like footprints peppered it.


    He paid it all no mind.


    As soon as they¡¯d entered the pantry, warmth had begun to spread along his side. He didn¡¯t need to open his book bag to know what it meant.


    Somehow, he''d advanced his first chapter. He was a step closer to completing his three-part quest.


    ~~~


    A few very important things: this chapter is shorter than normal and not yet edited (since I got it to my editor too late). I''d love to say I have a good reason... and I do! This week I really focused on a few things:


    - my health. had a rough week here:


    - character development. Post binding day, Callam has been needed a why, and developing that why is key to act three. I have a good direction now, but will be going back to the chapter with Merra and the Sootskins to have him have a more physical reaction to seeing the kids drown. Its a moment I didn''t explore enough at the time, and will be fixing it. This should help give him a reminder that he needs to be stronger. I''ll be similarly expanding and revising the time with Niles post-binding day to better show the stark differences between his life and Callam''s now.


    - planning act III. The tower isn''t just a school. Its a place with danger, and i want to prep readers that darkness is coming. Laying those nibbles so the reader begins piecing them is important, and takes a lot of time.


    -learning how to write more depth of character. Writing jealousy took me three days.


    So you made it to the end of the update, here is your surprise. To improve character writing, I''ve started the story ive linked in the author notes. I''ll likely be updating it once a month, as a place to learn more depth of character. Comments are open, let me know what you think!

 Chapter Forty-Five: Stepping Carefully

    ¡°Do not fear prejudice.


    Fear indifference.


    For the hated still have power,


    But the chattel¡¯s bleats,


    Fall only on deaf ears.¡±


    ~~Insac, First of the Freemen


    <hr>


    ¡°Let me fetch the professor,¡± the chef said, pushing a small panel to reveal a hidden entryway into the pantry. ¡°Try not to touch anything while I¡¯m gone.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what should we try first?¡± Lenora headed for the foodstuffs before Callam could respond. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached for a jar filled with red nuts, pushing what appeared to be pickled hoof out of the way. ¡°Don¡¯t judge,¡± she teased, then dropped a hand to tug down the hem of her dress. ¡°I¡¯ve always fancied sweets. Ever since I was little.¡±


    Callam, focused as he was on finding a place to sit that wasn¡¯t covered in flour, couldn¡¯t help but smile. Everyone liked candy, far as he knew¨Cif anything, he was curious why the storeroom carried pickled meats at all. Those rations smelled so rancid no one cared if the orphans stole them.


    Food¡¯s food, I guess.


    Frowning slightly, he settled near a metal drum; a few weeks of being tomebound and already he¡¯d become accustomed to a life of plenty. Best I snap out of it. Having some food is better than none.


    The orphans counting on him didn¡¯t need the reminder.


    ¡°Have they any raw chocolate?¡± he asked after a moment, hoping to cover for his silence. He¡¯d be remiss to pass on Siela¡¯s favorite treat.


    ¡°No¡­ just something called brittle root. Maybe with wine they¡¯ll taste the same?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s wine?¡± Having yet to see this side of her, Callam hoped to keep her talking. He enjoyed the new perspective.


    ¡°Ah.¡± Clinking followed Lenora as she searched. ¡°Nope. Just fermented raisins. We¡¯d have to get creative...¡±


    ¡°Sure¨C¡± Whatever he¡¯d been about to say was lost as a pulse of heat radiated in his hands and pulled his attention back to his grimoire. Rushing to open it, he paused only when the cover caught his eye. Had the cityscape¡¯s outline always looked so dark? He¡¯d have sworn it was beige before.


    Must be a trick of the light. He rubbed his eyes. The nights he¡¯d spent staring at the book while practicing his first spell had burned images of the skyline into his head, but memories were fallible.


    Foreword: For Callam Quill, bonded companion.


    Callam Quill, Mage, Level 1.


    Grimoire Type: Unknown.


    Star-level: Four.


    Skills: Literacy.


    Talents: Streetwise. Puzzles come easily to you.


    Spells: Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus (Recharging)


    Prologue: Your first spell (Complete)


    Chapter One: The Journey of Hidden Intent, Part II


    Great men keep great secrets,


    But written words harbor no deceit,


    Some stories are told best by others,


    And others yet, told best by me.


    Callam Quill of Chapelhill,


    Bring me to Solem¡¯s Door.


    To learn the sister-spell hidden on this floor,


    And save the secret they¡¯d quell to keep.


    Description: Through the help of another, you¡¯ve uncovered hidden steps to this riddle.


    Warning: Some things cannot be slowed when put into motion.


    With one hand, momentum makes men of children.


    With the other, it creates monsters of men.


    Incantation: NA


    Timeline: One Month


    Partem: This chapter can be shared with other readers.


    Footnote: This is a three-part quest.


    <hr>


    ¡°...save the secret they¡¯d quell to keep?¡± Callam repeated the phrase to himself, his heart pounding. He was unsure of what to make of it, but his gut warned that it could not bode well. ¡°Thirty days?¡± How was he to complete a semester-long quest in under a month?


    ¡°Often whisper to yourself?¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°No more than you butt in,¡± he said in jest without thinking¨Cstreet kids kept to themselves. A glance up found Lenora leaning over him, dark hair draped over her shoulders, warm eyes cooling by the second.


    Too late he noticed what she held.


    ¡°I¨Csorry. I¡¯d come to tell you I found some cocoa,¡± she said.


    He took a deep breath, feeling the lackwit. Why was he so nervous? ¡°My chapt¨C¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve been serving me coffee all this time?¡± interrupted a roguish voice. ¡°Vile woman. That swill¡¯s not even fit for a Ruddite.¡±


    Callam did a double take¨Cthe chef had returned with Olenid, who was currently swaddling a plant.


    That was only one of many strange things about him. For instance, the Professor¨Cdespite his crisp scholar blues¨Clooked as if he¡¯d woken within the hour and forgotten to brush his hair or trim his beard. Yellow oak leaves hid between his locks, and paper constructs whizzed about his head, so small they¡¯d have passed for bees if not for their stark white coloring.


    An open-toed pair of sandals completed the unusual ensemble. This, at least, Callam understood¨Cthough he got the distinct impression the man wore them less for comfort and more to let the sun in.


    ¡°Have you tasted your drinks even once, Olenid? Or just assumed it was coffee? Students, this prodigy is your professor. A genius, really, even though he can¡¯t tell by sight the difference between coffee and heated chocolate.¡±


    ¡°The smell alone hinted of the foul bean,¡± the man protested.


    ¡°They smell nothing alike.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    Stealing a glance at Lenora, Callam was relieved to see she looked as confused as he felt.


    It seemed crazy to think that the second part of this man¡¯s puzzle had led to the progression of Callam¡¯s grimoire. How were the two related?


    ¡°I¡¯ve been informed you¡¯ve solved for the chalk,¡± Oledin said once the chef had returned to her duties. He placed his plant down on a nearby shelf.


    ¡°You mean the baking powder right?¡± Lenora asked.


    ¡°I do.¡± Silence stretched as the man looked them over. Behind him, a one-star tomebound slipped into the room to grab supplies. The constructs shot her way, curious.


    ¡°Professor?¡± Callam ventured.


    ¡°Yes? Have I wasted my time, or are either of you going to tell me the next making of man?¡±


    Lenora¡¯s bit lip made her position clear.


    ¡°Prosperity?¡± Callam guessed, rising to his feet. It made sense, at least, if this powder was truly used in cooking for the masses.


    ¡°Butchery, robbery, bigotry. All words that rhyme with misery. All byproducts of human suffering. Think about the shells. Think what the dust makes you do.¡± Collecting his plant, the man turned to leave.


    ¡°Music?¡± Lenora blurted out.


    ¡°Closer. But any bird can sing,¡± he called out.


    Things weren¡¯t clicking for Callam. How was ammonia baking powder related to music? Not in a way that made sense.


    Think.


    The shells, the instruments covered in¡­


    Callam gave their teacher¡¯s back a long look¨Cthe eccentric man had nearly made it to the room¡¯s secret entrance, yet nothing about him hinted at the terrible play on words he¡¯d set up.


    Dust off your instruments? The Sisters had said that often, when telling the chapelward to go tinning. But to what extent did it apply here? Were they to play a symphony?


    Couldn¡¯t be. The chaos of the cards flying everywhere. The broken drum and flute. The fact that ammonia, in large amounts, could kill a man.


    Poison. Broken music. What type of noise was poison to the ear?


    ¡°Cacophonies. They are the second makings of man, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    Turning, Oledin exclaimed, ¡°A brain among my students. Excellent. Do tell, why did the dust fall?¡± Rarely had Callam seen someone smile so broadly.


    He ground his teeth. This answer, at least, was easy. Easy¡­ and frustrating. No streetwise talent needed¨Che knew he was on the right track.


    ¡°You set us up to fail. The pain was all part of the process.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    Callam took to rubbing his Seedling¡¯s scar as he sorted his thoughts. ¡°I¡¯d wager you never thought we¡¯d solve any part of the puzzle in the first class, did you?


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°The pain, the dust, the scribbled answer on the board. It was just a ploy to push us to inspect our surroundings. Had we banged on the instruments after listening to the shells, we¡¯d have solved the puzzle.¡±


    ¡°Then why am I here? And why are you?¡± The strange man adapted a leisurely pace, walking back and forth between the stocking-room¡¯s far shelves. He stopped to investigate a jar of aged plums.


    Lenora spoke up this time. ¡°Tower puzzles rarely have a single solve, do they?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have to cancel my trip to Cardica!¡± the man cooed to no-one in particular. Only after he began to scale the staircase in the hidden entrance did Callam realize the professor was talking to his plant. Speaking up, the man added. ¡°Wednesday, at noon. Don¡¯t tell anyone what you¡¯ve found. And remember, fear anything long enough, and it becomes loud.¡±


    ¡°An ominous man, him.¡± The chef had returned, a pot floating overhead. ¡°Always loved those silly stanzas, bless his heart. Now get. I¡¯ve meals to make and you¡¯ve already made a mess of the floor.¡±


    The flour had somehow covered everything during the conversation. In contrasted the dark, stone floor,


    ¡°Borrow you for a minute?¡± Callam asked, grabbing Lenora''s arm as they left the kitchens. Olenid¡¯s words resonated in his head. Nerves gnawed at his stomach. How long had it been since he¡¯d confided in another? But he needed help here.


    He¡¯d have to learn to trust, or he¡¯d fail. ¡°There is something I need to show you.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Mm.¡± Lenora shook her head, one hand cupping her chin, the other hidden under the common room¡¯s table. Producing a five of hearts, she placed it on the commoner¡¯s stack of the game of Seeker¡¯s talent they were playing.


    At once the hearts melded together and attacked Callam¡¯s king. ¡°They¡¯d quell to keep,¡± she repeated, low enough that the ensuing explosion of color and noise masked her voice. ¡°What do you think it means?¡±


    ¡°It has something to do with my grimoire.¡± He sighed. When she¡¯d seen the urgency on his face earlier, she¡¯d suggested they take a walk outside. He¡¯d brought her here instead, knowing sound covered secrecy better than silence ever could. ¡°I didn¡¯t tell the full truth earlier. Irem warned me to be careful. Said my binding was unusual enough to attract attention.¡±


    ¡°I was there, Callam,¡± Lenora whispered softly. Then her eyes lost their intensity and she seemed to struggle to hold his gaze. ¡°But us four-stars all invite envy, don¡¯t we? These are just the cards we¡¯ve been dealt.¡±


    ¡°Not like this.¡± Collecting the royals and commoners, he began shuffling. ¡°Irem can think what she wants, but the chapter¡¯s warning lends her words weight. I¡¯d be a fool to wait until I¡¯ve deciphered each line¨CI need to move faster now. Get stronger today.¡±


    Stand tall where others falter.


    ¡°Will you help?¡± Crow¡¯s foot, but he hated asking. Yet what choice did he have?


    He was already in the dark about so much: his Seedling, his mother¡¯s plight, and his own unusual magic. For those mysteries he had to sit around, hoping they¡¯d unravel themselves.


    No. In this he would not wait. It was time to act¨Cto prove he belonged.


    For that, he needed a team. He needed to climb.

 Happy New Years + Tomebound updates

    Hey everyone!


    First of all, thank you so much for supporting tomebound through 2024! As we gear up for 2025, one of the big changes I''ll be making is taking plotting more seriously. As a result, I have to make some serous edits to up the pacing of the book (recently the chapters have felt a bit too magic-academy esque for my liking, and I feel the need to up the tension).


    Here are the changes that will be rolling out tomorrow and next week.


    Starting with chapter 12-16. The worst placing unbound will be send straight to auction. This will up the stakes. Similarly, it will be better discribed that those who place in the top five are the only ones who have a chance of binding a four star grimoire. (This won''t matter to Callam much, as his motivations at the time are just to get enough money to help himself/maybe the orphans).


    In chapter 24-25, we will mention that the young girl who is being taken to the gallows is a sootskin, and have that be the reason why Callam goes to deal with Marra. It will be made clear that the elders did not detect his seedling, and his tome will explain why. this is a big narrative change, but neccessary to allow other, more important elements of the story to shine under the immense time constraints created by having an academy-esque tower setting.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Chapter 30: After Callam gets his spell around chapter 30, the spell will be more detailed in what it does, and describe that greater mastery will give him a better understanding of its powers.


    Merra will hint at some of the going ons that she is worried about, hints that will be resolved in act III of the book.


    Certain elements of the book will get darker. I won''t spoil it all, for those of you who want to reread old chapters, but the disinctions between the life of Ruddites and Tomebound is going to be more reinforced. Especially the scenes in town, and those involving Niles.


    For pacing reasons:


    Chapter 33: Callam''s first encounter with the prarieplights around chapter 33 will be expanded, allowing us to see more magic at work from other students and to rienforce his struggles. A low level student will get hurt, to demenstrate how dangerous the tower is.


    Chapter 38ish: Callam will be asked to spar against the other four-star tomebounds with and without magic during his first conditioning practice. This should help make Irem''s words more impactful, while also upping the action.


    I hate to spend so much time editing, but I have a pretty good direction of where I want the story to go now, and given podium is going to be doing a full dev edit, I know I''ll have to make these changes eventually, and the dread of it hanging over my head is impacting the speed with which I write new chapters.. Might as well get started this week.


    In terms of story progression, I should have a chapter out next week, as well as a summary of changes made to keep the story moving.


    Have any other suggestions? i''d love to hear them!

 Chapter Forty-Six: Fire and Folly

    Wings are such common things,


    To the airborne bird,


    Yet, given to the grounded beast,


    Will change the course of history.


    ~~ ¡°Hope,¡± an oral poem by Mansi Freeman


    <hr>


    ¡°We¡¯ll need a proctor, then.¡±


    All his fears of rejection, yet Lenora had spoken up without hesitation. Moose had been her first choice, of course, though he¡¯d proved busy up until late afternoon. That left Callam and her with a few hours to practice their spells.


    And practice they did.


    ¡°Enfir maliv sonju fi naa loem,¡± Callam heard her whisper as he failed to focus on his breathing. Eyes still closed, he leaned to his left and swiped a twig out from underneath him, then settled back down on the prairie floor. He worked to visualize the surroundings in his mind. To see the hearts of all the beasts lying in wait around him.


    Poet¡¯s hand, but it was easier said than done.


    That he¡¯d been under immense pressure the few times he¡¯d cast so far mattered little to Lenora. Nor had it mattered that he was still sore from mana backlash. She¡¯d been quick to point out that they couldn¡¯t climb very far if he had to wait days to recover or risk death every time he wanted to manifest his magic.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be eaten.¡± she¡¯d teased. ¡°Then I¡¯d be. And whatever Moose makes from selling our grimoires, he¡¯ll spend on food.¡±


    He¡¯d laughed at that¡ªshe did have a point.


    Better yet, she seemed to have forgotten his earlier lie about his magic involving translation work. Or is pretending to, at least.


    Wind whooshed up the hills, and he imagined it traveling in waves, parting the prairie grasses like a comb running through sand. He knew tower animals hid in these plains. They darted back and forth, steps sending nearly imperceptible pulses through the thicket. Each animal held a unique signature¡ªa constellation of essence that he could sense. See in his mind, if he strained himself. They were small and large, and¡­ and¡­


    Callam sneezed, sunlight beaming into his eyes from the east.


    ¡°Fire and folly,¡± he swore, focus gone. Turning around squinting, he spotted Lenora seated high up on an oak branch, about ten paces from where she¡¯d last been practicing. Leaves rustled as the clouds overhead drifted farther away, further dousing the tree in gold. One mote of light, then another¡ªsix in total¡ªpulsed upward from the grimoire on her lap before starting to circle her.


    Earlier, she¡¯d been all bright eyes and large smiles as she explained what these grains were: specks of externalized mana she could charge in good weather and ignite at will. Hers was a four-star version of the spell the rest of the first-years had earned the night before and was an essential tool in fighting the prairieplights.


    Her face had fallen when he¡¯d inquired about the requirements to advance her quest. They were to kill fifteen of the creatures, and much as she¡¯d seemed excited to strengthen her magic, she¡¯d appeared saddened by the idea of slaughter.


    Even now, guilt tinted her features. He could see it in the set of her shoulders and in the way she bit her lip. Concentrated as she was, he would not disturb her with questions about her progress.


    Instead, he watched quietly as she collected the motes in her fingers and sent them flying to the skies. There, they spiraled around each other, twisting and turning in a race to reach the edges of his vision, then grew outwards in long ribbons of color. Greens, reds, and the occasional blue spanned the floor¡¯s ceiling until the lights had had their fill.


    In some ways, they reminded him of the flares used during the Triad Trials. Only beautiful.


    When the infused magic returned home, it began diving in and out of the dark tresses of Lenora¡¯s hair. One mote landed on her shoulder, another on her knee, as she began to weave the four strands of light into a tight knot.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Callam allowed himself to stare. But only for a short while. Any more, and he¡¯d risk making her uncomfortable.


    Focus.


    With a breath, he closed his eyes and forced himself back into deep meditation. He tried to ignore the aches in his muscles and back. Logic told him that she was right¡ªthat there had to be a way for him to cast his spells without duress. And while he might not share in her reservations around causing death, he did fear his own. Any minute now, she¡¯d finish up and insist they start their hunt.


    What would he do then? Or when the Quellers came calling and he couldn¡¯t defend himself?


    One. Two. Three. The heartbeats came more easily this time. Just like earlier, he could see them all around¡ªhundreds of rabbits hiding in the bush, a family of paperfowl nesting in the nearby copse, and dozens of prairieplights lying in wait under the grove¡ªbut now his body seemed attuned to theirs and the ink within their hearts echoing his.


    All he had to do to collect their latent power within himself was to murmur Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus. Incant and pull.


    ¡°Stop. Callam! Stop it!¡±


    He heard the screams as if from a distance, and they took a moment to register. Why should he release the power he¡¯d built up? The tendrils of ink were in his grasp now, and his body hungered for a way to expend the mana it had built up all day. This felt good. Power¡ª


    ¡°Please! CALLAM!¡±


    The desperation in Lenora¡¯s voice was enough to bring him back to himself, though the allure of his magic made letting go difficult.


    I¡­he gasped. What? What is that?


    The landscape in front of him had twisted. True the trees, and hills were still there, but they were now muted in hue, greys and whites soiling what golds and greens once warmed. Dark roots led like veins to the oak where Lenora sat, her body slouched upon the bleached branch.


    She¡¯d turned a sickly pallor.


    ¡°Lenora!¡± He was already on his feet, racing through the overgrown grass. Seeds of panic grew within his chest. Had he caused this? Obviously so, yet he hadn''t meant to hurt her¡ªhe¡¯d only hoped to cast.


    Color returned to the hills with each step he took. The tree¡¯s bark provided the traction he needed to climb.


    ¡°I¡¯d hold off on exerting yourself,¡± called out a sing-song voice from behind him. Something that sounded remarkably like the strumming of a lute reached his ears. ¡°She¡¯ll survive. You, on the other hand, should really consider resting before¡­ well, that.¡±


    Callam crashed to the ground.


    His fingers burned. Then his throat did, as he expelled the morning¡¯s meal. A wave of weariness the likes of which he had not felt since he¡¯d trained to be a Sootskin set in. He tried to stand¡ªto reach Lenora¡ªbut could not. Even the simplest movements required coordination beyond his means.


    ¡°Professor Oledin did mention I should fix a tonic before I headed this way. There is music to the way that man¡¯s mind works, I swear. Here.¡± Callam heard Rote pull something from his bag. ¡°Drink.¡±


    A groan escaped Callam¡¯s lips as he reached for the offered salve and nearly tipped over from the effort. No one¡­ no one would cast if the backlash was always this intense.


    ¡°You know¡­ there is a reason for the schedule we keep. Headmaster Vale might wish for all tomebound to push themselves as you have, but the body has limits the mind cannot undo. And that spell of yours is no cantrip. Felt the pull of it myself. Now, Lenora, how are you feeling?¡±


    ¡°Poet¡¯s t¡ª¡± she swore from above. ¡°As if I¡¯ve seen a barber for a headache.¡±


    Rote¡¯s laugh rolled through the hills. ¡°Better than a coroner, I¡¯d say.¡± A pair of worn boots crowded the edge of Callam¡¯s vision when the man bent down to inspect him. ¡°I¡¯ve heard stories of children who visited a butcher thinking him a doctor¡ªbut that is a tale for another time. Well¡­¡± he added a breath later, apparently satisfied with his assessment, ¡°You will be happy to know I''ve selected your proctor: a healing specialist. You two are to meet him at fifth bell.¡±


    ¡°We¡­¡± Callam spit to clear his mouth. ¡°Already have one.¡± The words came out ruder than he¡¯d intended, but nothing good could come from a stranger overseeing their climb. Or his quest.


    Lenora came to the rescue. ¡°He means my friend Moose, sir.¡± she explained.


    ¡°The guardian from my class? Won¡¯t do you much good unless he can mask your magic. And he can¡¯t. Any beast worth its salt will make straight for you, Callam. Best you stick with my plan.¡±


    ¡°Moose fel¡ª¡± Lenora interjected.


    ¡°Ah, there is the problem, isn¡¯t it? Feelings. Terrible things, in the hearts of teenagers. Lead to all sorts of stupid decisions. Though, since I¡¯ve the sense you¡¯ll insist on falling prey to such follies anyway, I¡¯ll make it interesting for you. Should you reach the staircase to the second floor by nightfall, I shall allow for Moose to assist your proctor in joining you. A worthy challenge, aye?¡±

 Health update// Return to weekly uploads + Chapter Forty-Seven: Tension

    If men who have words, fight,


    And men who give theirs, lie,


    Why then, do you trust this man,


    Who can read and write?


    ~A warning from one Manarji elder to another.


    <hr>


    ¡°... what happened back there?¡±


    Callam shrugged, pulling tight the strap on his book bag. He kept his eyes on the winding path ahead. A league or more still separated them from the first floor¡¯s central lake and the nearby grassland where Rote had suggested they complete Lenora¡¯s quest. The meadow grew sparser this far down the hill, with faint game trails shooting off to closer watering holes.


    He wasn¡¯t ignoring Lenora¡¯s question because he was shy.


    It was more that he disliked sharing secrets. He¡¯d already divulged one today, and this one¡­ well, what did his spell say about him? His stomach twisted. What kind of man was he to enjoy this type of rush? This sense of power. Of control. His fingers itched at the thought. Would she think him a monster if he spoke up? Was he?


    ¡°So?¡± Stopping in her tracks, Lenora gave him a long look.


    ¡°¡±It''s¡­ hard to explain.¡±


    ¡°Try me, chapelward.¡±


    His throat went dry. ¡°You¡¯ve said we all have secrets.¡±


    ¡°That was before your spell nearly pulled me from the tree.¡± She glared at him. Then the wind tossed her brown hair and rustled the edges of her red sleeves. It softened the heat in her eyes. Softened them until he could see his reflection there. He looked shaken. More quietly, she said, ¡°It was fun, in a strange sort of way. I mean, after I realized I wasn¡¯t going to die.¡±


    It was his turn to stare at her. Was she spellsick? She yelled for me to stop. Screamed and I, I¡­


    ¡°Not fun, I guess. Novel. Like the wishtale magic my dad shared stories of back when he¡­¡± Her face fell and her fingers began fidgeting with the soft fabric of her tunic. ¡°He never mentioned starlevels. Or classes, or quests. Wasn¡¯t educated. It was always just a girl, her book, and her friends, an¡­ and the promise that if she pushed hard enough, the world would bend.¡±


    A longing had filled Lenora¡¯s voice as she spoke; when it caught, it became clear she hadn¡¯t always had Moose¡¯s company to call on.


    Callam thought of holding her. Of brushing her hand with his and telling her he understood.  Of¡ª


    ¡°Your magic felt like that to me,¡± she admitted, turning away so her hair draped over her face. ¡°Storybook.¡± She started back down the hill.


    He followed her, past a shaded grove, and through a cluster of floating wildflowers. He was touched¡ªit was as if she¡¯d known exactly what he needed to hear. Yet every reply he mouthed sounded stupid.


    A thank you? Banal. A compliment? Kind words were not his strength. An admission of his growing feelings? That almost drew a chuckle from his lips.


    What, would I babble on about her looks? How I think her smart and find her smile pretty?


    He shook his head. Siela had always said real bonds touched deeper than surface attraction¡ªthat there were two times a man grew: when he first cared for a girl, and when he first held his child. And she¡¯d made clear to him that the surest sign a man was a lackwit was when he rushed the first in hopes of practicing for the second.


    Best I focus on our climb.


    Three grassy rises and one muddy slope later, and the two arrived at the clearing. Milkweed fluff stuck to their clothes. Gouges in the trunks of a nearby corpse of Wishtender Willows hinted that something large and clawed  had passed through recently, though a quick jog around the better lit areas of the  glade confirmed they were alone.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°What if we both sit in the trees, this time?¡± Lenora asked. Before he¡¯d left, Rote had indicated the prairieplights here were too spread out to swarm¡ªperfect for them to practice on without taxing their magic.


    And an easy way to master their approach before rushing for the Tower staircase in an hour.


    ¡°Worth a try.¡± Rote''s earlier warning about drawing all the local wildlife hung in the air like. ¡°More time to finish casting this way.¡±


    ¡°The chestnut, then?¡± Lenora pointed to a lone tree in the heart of the clearing, then pulled herself into the boughs of a much closer Wishtender without waiting for a response.


    That stung.


    ¡°Took you long enough,¡± she called out once he was settled. A few paperfowl chirped; where his climb had scared off the constructs, her voice roused curiosity.


    ¡°On my count,¡± he shouted, trying not to think about what was to come. His feet dangled on each side of a thick branch. He¡¯d chosen to straddle the limb this way, back to the trunk, for precisely one reason: it wasn¡¯t comfortable.


    ¡°Three!¡±


    ¡°Two!¡± The knot in his stomach tightened.


    ¡°One!¡±


    Callam shut his mind off to the world. In and out, in and out. He timed each exhale with the lull of the breeze, each inhale with the surge of the wind. The gusts tickled his arms. They brought the sounds of the underbush: splashes from something vaguely amphibian, thumping from a small mammal hidden in the grass, and buzzing from the upper reaches of the chestnut¡¯s branches. There was a warmth to the noise, a safety found in numbers. He grinned. If he focused, he could make out little yellow blots weaving through the flowers¡ªbees collecting nectar for their hive. Their heartbeats were faint as embers. All the creatures'' heartbeats were. They were smoldering. Starved of air.


    To snuff them out he had but to pull free their pigmen¡ª


    Not happening.


    In a brutal motion he threw his weight backwards into the trunk. Bark scoured his skin, but the pain helped clear his mind, so he did it again. ¡°P-Poet¡¯s hand,¡± he gasped once his heart stopped hammering in his ears. He¡¯d been so close to¡­ to¡­


    Breathe.  I can do this.


    With a groan, he repositioned on the branch, then pulled a splinter from his arm. As glad as he was that his foresight had kept him sane, he¡¯d have to actually learn to resist this sense of euphoria and greed, if he was to ¡°stand tall where others falter.¡±


    Not run away from it.


    Mustering up courage wasn¡¯t the issue; everyone in the Tower had it in spades. No, it was that what he faced here was more akin to a recovered addict braving a drink than to any other test of will. His mind would play the enemy, and the adrenaline it served would only make his cravings worse.


    ¡°Callam!¡± Lenora shouted from across the way, and he looked up to see her reeling in the first prairieplight. Fifty or more roots erupted from the ground as it emerged¡ªthey whipped through the air, cracking like bones as the beast made a mad charge for her tree. Animals screamed and burst from the underbush.


    ¡°Stand tall where others falter,¡± he repeated, readying himself against the trunk. It wasn¡¯t lost on him that he¡¯d cast instinctively on Merra¡¯s boat. If he wished to stave off the quellers and protect the orphans, he would have to do so again.


    Or he¡¯d never avenge Orian.


    His nails bit into his palms as he did some quick math; since each instance of her spell could only burn a half-dozen tendrils at once, he¡¯d have to break nearly twenty of them to topple it over and give her a chance to kill it.


    Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus, he shouted, the world changing color as his mind reached out to the creatures around him.


    This time, he didn¡¯t shut his eyes.


    ***


    Ten. Ten broken roots was all it took to take down the first beast.


    It was a baby, compared to the second. And that one a child, to the fourth. Callam reached for the ink in each of the creature¡¯s nearest roots¡ªthe blots the only color in the landscape not black or gray¡ªas he tried to pin the thing down. Its fibers creaked and dug into the ground, resisting his efforts. Then earth ruptured as it shifted its torso and raced for his tree.


    He didn¡¯t care. This felt good.


    Sharp bursts of white indicated wherever Lenora¡¯s magic burned a ligament. She was incredible at that, it turned out: repeated casting. Her magic was not as widespread as his, but her control? Immeasurably better. He half expected she had a talent for it¡ªeven with Rote¡¯s potion coursing through his body, he¡¯d expend all his mana hours before she did.


    ¡°Enfir maliv sonju fi naa loem¡± she incanted, the sound carrying easily in the discolored terrain. She¡¯d have a sore throat soon, he guessed. It was an acceptable trade for so much power. Anything was. How he dreamed of casting constantly. Of collecting all the ink aroun¡ª


    He jammed his elbow into the tree.


    Pain shot up his arm as leaves fluttered down onto his clothes.  Color flashed before him. Muted greens, and browns first, then the stark yellow of dried grass, and the clear blue of the sky, they all clicked into place as his body released the spell and fatigue set in.


    It was a simple strategy¡ªone that had worked so far, and had worked again. It had even gotten easier. Too bad the prairieplight didn¡¯t slow its momentum.