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

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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.

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Lenora was still doubled over in pain.

She wasn’t the only one–Callam 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–

He tripped.

Head pounding, he caught himself on the back of a desk and settled for reading from a distance. Misery–there 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–in 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–yet 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–-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–the 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–.”

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–so inappropriate for a noble–Callam 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.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Too bad I too can act the fool.

“And they only share tales of the sea...” His voice trailed off as Lenora–having found her feet, but not her balance–stumbled 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—” 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–patronizing, 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–Siela had hated when men did that–but 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—

“… 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–?”

“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–only 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–Freemen 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–he’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–”

“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!