“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 Forth 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—he 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—large 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—a 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—or 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.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Come on. Better I socialize with a brute than attempt to domesticate a Moose,” she whispered, none too quietly.

Callam grumbled—though he wasn’t really complaining—he 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—it 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—Moose, 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—many 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—and 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—the commoner-tongue—he 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—he’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—the 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—they 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 :)