“GODS SOW SALT IN THE MINDS OF MEN.
PROPHETS TILL THE BARREN FIELDS.”
~~FINAL WORDS OF TAKAL, PORT CARDICA’S LAST LIVING ATHEIST
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"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—a 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—I 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—late 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—”
“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—where 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—go to her. She loves good conversation.”
Tilla’s stare revealed the lie for what it was. Yet murmurs of recognition still followed her introduction—and 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.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
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—assassinations 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—he 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—clearly 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—for 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—they 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.