Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"There is magic in words. No longer in yours."

Verse One, The First Binding

Callam ate and drank in silence after Helena left, enjoying the rare meal that was neither stolen nor fought for. In particular, he savored the chicken; it was far more tender than the stringy rooster meat vendors sold by the stick. The brown rice was more common fare, but even so it was soft and delicious, without any crunch.

At some point Callam bit into something hard: a wishbone had snuck into his meal. Seeing it, he felt a smile tug at his lips. He knew many sailors who would have jumped at the chance to break it. “Furcula’s Fortune,” they’d called it—they were always eager to show off their big words when deep in their cups. It was a good omen, especially so among those who counted seagulls as a staple of their diet. More importantly, the bone made for an excellent tool. Callam moved to jiggle it into the keyhole of his shackles, when he found that the manacles were affixed with an unpickable spellwork.

No surprises there, Callam thought, and tucked back into his meal.

Once he’d cleaned his plate, he tried to doze off. Sleep evaded him, the minutes turning to hours as he tossed and turned. For the first time in years he’d gone to bed full; it was a surprisingly uncomfortable sensation, and he couldn’t help but feel like a pig fattened for slaughter. Eventually, Callam resigned himself to staring at the bookshelf next to the corner of his cot. What he wouldn’t give to hold one of those books. Honestly, he would have settled for watching a fly.

Anything to beat the boredom and keep his mounting anxiety at bay.

I’ve failed, Callam admitted to himself some time later, resisting the urge to clench his fists. He’d called in every favor he could pull, and several he owed still, to prepare for his heist, yet had failed. Worse, he’d let his sister’s memory down. Before she’d passed, Siela had pulled him close and made him swear to “stand tall where others falter.”

It's just like her to leave me with a stanza, Callam thought, his throat constricting slightly. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but he held them back. Siela had loved the verses, and had always claimed that faith carried a power of its own. Callam didn’t know much about that, but he remembered his promise. He’d lived by it.

My future is not yet written, he told himself, and took a deep breath. In the five years since his sister’s passing, Callam had trained his fingers and sharpened his wit every day. His rigorous practice had paid off more than once—now, he had to trust that it would be enough. The only thing left for him to do was to complete a few small acts of preparation, and find strength in owning what parts of the process he could control.

To that end, Callam grabbed the fork from his meal and clutched it between his manacled hands. Turning on his side, he poked a hole through the sheets, tore the material into thin strips, and then fastened the first strip around the wishbone’s clavicle, effectively creating a small pendant. With no reason to wear it just yet, Callam hid it underneath his pillow. Time alone would tell if the bone was lucky or not.

Callam tied the remaining strips together into one long string that vaguely resembled a sling. This too went under his pillow. Lastly, Callam draped the blankets over the hole in his sheets and lay on top of it. Better to be chilly than to have Helena question him on why he’d torn apart the linen.

~~~~~

Callam was sound asleep when breakfast came and went. Restless thoughts had kept him up late into the night, so he slept right through lunch as well. Helena finally woke him for dinner. She carried a big basket in her hands and was dressed in a blue smock that favored function over form—it looked as simple as it was durable and was covered by a long white apron with more than a few stains.

“Blanket alright? Or do you just prefer not to use one?” Helena asked, her eyebrows raised.

Callam yawned a “yes,” in response.

“Fair enough. Some people run hot,” Helena said. “Here, I’ve brought you a change of clothes, since yours look destroyed.” She set the basket she was carrying down on the side of the bed, then placed a pair of thin leather sandals on top of it. “Ironed the shirt myself, so don’t go getting it dirty. Now, arms out. I’ll remove your cuffs so you can change. Behave, and I won’t have to put them back on.”

Callam nodded, then complied after a moment of hesitation. He was unsure of what to make of these gifts. Helena appeared earnest, and she’d been nothing but kind—yet he still felt wary. He’d learned long ago that favors traded hands like a pack of worn cards and kindness was rarely dealt for free.

“Alorha,” Helena incanted once Callam had fully extended his arms. She tapped his manacles with her needle and wisps of light spiraled down the iron until they reached the crowns on each clasp and released the internal mechanisms with a pop.

The cuffs loosened and Callam sighed in relief. He stayed quiet for a moment, itching his chafed skin as he gathered his thoughts. “So… what do I owe you for those?” he asked with a gesture to the basket of clothes. In his experience, it was best to air out any debts upfront. “I’m not exactly flush with coin.”

Helena paused her ministrations, her hands in the middle of applying a fresh bandage. “Owe me?” she probed, with a tinge of amusement in her voice. “You’re healing better than I expected,” she noted a moment later, having clearly chosen to ignore his question. “There’s bread and cheese inside the basket, next to your new clothes. I wrapped the food up, as I wasn’t certain if you’d be awake. Since you are, it’s best you rinse up; you won’t have time in the morning—the guards will be down early to take you to Binding Day. Be extra respectful to them. Their friends were dismissed for letting you in.”

“Can’t wait,” Callam replied sarcastically—he was no stranger to angry guards. He was also unsure why Helena had avoided his question, but he decided not to press the issue. “Thanks, Hele–uh. Ma’am. For everything.”

“You’re very welcome,” Helena said. She looked him over once more, then offered him a sad smile. “It’s easy to think they are all rotten. The nobles, I mean. Reality is, most treat the Ruddite well—even Mr. Writ does, once he forgives and forgets. So don’t lose hope. Even if you don’t bind, you might still find a home in a noble’s house.”

Helena’s words lingered as she collected the previous day's plates onto a tray, lifted it, and turned to cross the small room. When she reached the doorway, she hesitated and motioned to the bookshelf with her chin. “Just because you can’t read them doesn’t mean they don’t have stories to share.”

With that, Helena stepped through the opening in the wall. It sealed behind her, but not before little Arthur could stick his head out and shout, “Good luck, mister! May the Prophet prosper within you!”

The minute she'd left, Callam darted from his cot to the bookshelf. He didn’t need to be told twice; he wanted to try and read—even though everyone knew that unbound couldn’t. Wiping his hands clean, he sat on the ground cross-legged. He’d touched books before, of course, but only when the Sisters had taught him a new prayer. And those holy books had remained closed during the entire lesson; all Callam had been allowed to do was take two fingers to his forehead, to his heart, then gently to the cover.

Not today, though. Today, he was going to open a book and see what secrets lay within.

Nimble fingers reached for a green hardcover and pulled it from its snug place between two other volumes on the shelf. The leather was weathered with age, supple and grooved where countless hands had loved and cradled it. It smelled of fired oak and cellar musk; all of it promised grand stories—the type that sent Callam back to better days. Cradling the novel, he undid the blue ribbon tying it shut. Only then did he notice a red bookmark nestled between the pages, as if someone had put the book down mid-adventure.

He flipped to the marker. It seemed as good a starting point as any.

Callam’s eyes widened as letters unfolded before him for the first time. He’d seen writing previously, on street signs and the like, but never much of it and never for long—the words had always slipped away before he’d gotten a proper look. Nothing had prepared him for the flowing calligraphy that now filled the page in front of him. Each stroke of ink was perfectly aligned and entirely illegible, the text interrupted occasionally by dots, hooks, and spaces.

Callam’s heart froze when the words stayed still longer than he’d expected. Longer than they should. The basic laws of magic dictated that unbound couldn’t make rhyme or reason of written language—that the ink should slide right off the pages.

Apparently, those laws were wrong.

That’s…impossible. he thought, his mouth slightly open, his eyes fixed on the paper. Can I…where do I start? he wondered, trying to parse the letters for their meaning. Before he’d managed any progress, however, reality caught up; Callam watched as the words blurred, then fell from the page. Without thinking, he tore to another section of the book. He knew unbound couldn’t read, yet felt certain he would have been able to, if given enough time. Choosing a fresh page, he tried again.

And again.

With each new attempt Callam grew more cross-eyed. Soon, a mounting pressure prickled the back of his head. He wanted to stop, but like a sailor bailing a waterlogged boat, he could not. He finished the first book and grabbed another; two more he skimmed through in this fashion, and still the garbled letters repeated their infernal pattern—they held steady long enough to taunt him with the hope of understanding, only to unravel and fall away. By the end of the third volume, Callam’s head was truly pounding. He felt ready to throw the book at a wall. Instead, he wearily watched as the words on that final page fled.

“What in the Poet’s name…?” he whispered. Callam rubbed his tired eyes. When that didn’t do anything, he rubbed the paper between his fingers.

Then, he gaped at the page: he could see and feel four little dots on the paper’s surface. Each one was no bigger than an ink drop, and together they formed the outline of a square.

Common sense told Callam that he shouldn’t be able to see these marks. Yet he could—and his instincts told him that these dots were only visible to the illiterate, hidden by text as they normally were. Anyone able to read would see writing on the page, and not the markings beneath.

What have I stumbled onto? Callam thought with a pang of nervousness. He felt a growing urge to look over his shoulder. It was as if someone had intentionally marred the book’s page to hide a message from those with magic.

But why would anyone do that?