“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

----------------------------------------

“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—both 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—thoughtful, loving, supportive—but 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—his sister had scored a seven on the innate talent score, and he’d somehow bonded a four-star grimoire—but 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—the 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—the 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—or 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.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“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—”

“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—he 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—being 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—orphans 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—scenes 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—and it wasn’t, he had years of experience as a pickpocket—the 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—pass 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—he’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—as 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—a 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—he’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.