“Sapience is the parasite passed from parent to child.

Must the world suffer so that you may think?”

—The Omen Tree

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“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—a 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—I’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—one 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—then 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—whether 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—a 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—he 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—Callam 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.

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

“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—assuming 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—we 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—there 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—he 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—the boy had cleared the fourth story and was now trying to force his way through a web of thick cables. A chime rang out—fifteen 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—all 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—Airster 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—a 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—an 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—his 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—their 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—something 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.