NOVEL SIMPLE Chapter One: A Slip Away from Death
Chapter One: A Slip Away from Death
"Dreams are the mutiny of the common man."
~~Verse Ten of The First Binding
In Port Cardica, every streetwise unbound must memorize three rules to survive:
First, no thieving on Sundays. The Sisters bring food, but if anyone steals, no one eats. Second, don’t cross the nobles. They need someone to blame for the city’s unrest. It will be you.
Third, a fool’s prayer always follows danger, so if you plan to do something dumb, pray first.
Tonight, Callam Quill was breaking all three in a brazen attempt to change his fate.
He dangled from a cliff wall, fingers straining to bear his full weight. High above him stood his mark: a coastal manor with the gothic arches and spires popular among the port’s elite. Waves crashed and frothed below. Wind whipped along the rocks, buffeting him as he searched for better footing but found none.
“Poet, save me,” he mumbled through numb lips. Freedom lay atop this cliff, yet he could see no easy way up or down. Worse, his strength was fading fast and his hands had begun to cramp. Stones bit at his skin. Wedging his foot back into a too-small crevice, he squinted to his left. Nothing there but rock, slick as seaglass. A glance to his right yielded no better route. Only one option remained: a handhold the size of his thumb.
Heart racing, he pushed off, reaching out with his right arm and trusting his left to keep hold of the wall. His nimble fingers brushed the lip of the hold and bore down.
For a moment he thought he’d made it. Thought he’d finish this climb, steal a spellbook, and fulfill his promise to his sister.
Too late he heard a gust howl its approach. He felt the bite of the wind—ice against his eyes—followed by its pull. Without proper leverage, he lacked the strength and dexterity needed to resist the wind.
His grip flagged then faltered as he was pried from the cliff.
“It isn't written!” he shouted while he slid. “It isn’t written!” The stanza was one of many prayers shared by the chapel’s Sisters in lieu of lessons or love—repetition got him fed, but memorization had gotten him seconds, so he’d learned them all by heart. Instinct kicked in and he threw his hands out.
His calluses tore as he traded skin for friction on the rock face.
Something caught—all at once, fabric ripped, stone scraped against his abdomen, and the air was forced from his lungs. He lurched to a stop—he was left hanging like a rag doll, eyes shut tight against an avalanche of gravel that peppered him.
Only when the rock shower had passed did Callam manage a labored breath. Trembling, he found a hold, unhooked his tunic from the rock spur it had snagged on, and clambered to a nearby perch. Debris fell from his matted brown hair.
“B-by the prophet.” He swore, his teeth chattering. He was shivering, stunk of sea salt, and hurt all over.
More importantly, he had survived.
A quick flex confirmed he hadn’t broken any fingerbones, yet a cough brought about the sting every kicked street rat knew so well. Soft prods confirmed his fears: a bruised rib, maybe worse. He’d seen beggars ignore similar injuries from fights or beatings, only to end up plagued by the stitcher’s cough.
It was reason enough to consider giving up.
Not happening, Callam thought, finding his feet. I promised her.
His sister’s last words echoed through his mind: “stand tall when others falter.” Now, after a month of preparation, a real chance at freedom was within his reach. If he gave up, all he’d do is doom himself to a lifetime of serving those blessed by scripture.
Siela’s memory deserved better.
With renewed vigor, he resumed his ascent. He climbed more carefully this time, taking breaks when his body demanded it, and testing each hold to make sure it was secure. By morning, he hoped to have a grimoire in hand and no longer be unbound.
Claiming a spellbook was imperative. Binding Day was coming, and the ceremony would force all unbound seventeen-year-olds into a blind binding, with terrible odds of success. For years, he’d watched naïve orphans line up to receive their spellbooks, only to go from hopeful to horrified when the ink failed to take.
Won’t happen to me. Callam reached for the next handhold, a knot forming in his stomach. He’d never forget the cries of the orphans when their bindings had broken. It was supposed to be painless, yet shattered dreams never were. Those who failed the rite lost access to magic and literacy forever.
Instead, they became Ruddites. Indentured. Sunken-eyed slaves to the tomebound.
Focus, he told himself. He shook his arms out one at a time. The edge was less than five feet away. It was rumored that the guards rotated at midnight; after that, the grounds would be secure, so he’d—
“...that which is written,” a gruff voice stated from above.
Callam flattened himself against the cliff, his pulse racing. He dared not breathe. Peeking upwards, he could make out the silhouette of someone walking atop the cliff’s edge.
“Is foretold and forbidden,” another voice responded, completing the greeting. “Alright, alright. Enough formalities. All quiet on the watch?”
“Quiet as it gets. Just sea, stone, and sand for miles. I’ve slept less during sermon.”
“Hah! Better than the warfront or that blasted Tower, though, right? Two years, and I can still taste the stench of those…”
The rest of the conversation was swept up by the wind as the watchmen paced farther down the perimeter. They hadn’t seen him, that much was clear, but the guards were rotating now.
He had to hurry.
Two quick bounds and he’d neared the edge, only to find that his chosen route came to an end just short of the rim. He could take a leap of faith or climb back down and find a safer path.
Knuckles white from trepidation, Callam leaped.
Loose stones fell from where he’d kicked off the wall. For a second he was airborne, his hands reaching for the headland, sweat beading on his brow. Then he cleared the cliff’s edge and clawed his fingers into the dirt above. His palms burned as he began to slide backwards, before a foothold gave him the support he needed to haul himself up.
Pain shot through his ribs at the exertion. He clenched his teeth until it passed.
“Made it,” he wheezed. Thank the Poet. He stood gingerly—he wanted to check his wounds, but there was no time—the next rotation of guards could be coming any moment.
He needed to locate the first of the markers he’d memorized for this heist immediately. It would lead him to the estate's collection of scripted grimoires.
To his freedom.
Keeping to the shadows, Callam wound his way through the grounds to an outdoor courtyard. The manor loomed in the distance, four stories of ivy-covered granite fading into the darkness. Windows glowed like watchful eyes. One flickered on, and he fought the urge to hide. Instead, he sped up, the grass squelching loudly underfoot.
He hoped the creaking of nearby tree branches would mute the sound.
Soon, he reached the open pavilion. Peering around a hedge, Callam looked for any guards—to his relief, this area was empty except for a speaker's lectern. A gold copy of the sermon’s book laid open upon it.
The first marker. Left to weather outside in a blatant display of power and wealth.
The second marker, a manned tower with sentries on lookout, protruded from above a large archway at the far end of the courtyard. He approached with caution; these men stood vigilant in their watch. One leaned out the tower’s window, his lamp held high against the dark. The other cupped a hand over his brow to better see the grounds. Both wore breastplates, and neither kept the long beards common among the city's constables.
Callam swallowed heavily. Slouching against a topiary, he prepared to wait.
Seconds dragged to minutes as he watched for any sign that the sentries were distracted. Around him, it began to drizzle, then to rain.
His heart thundered.
An hour passed before his chance came: one guard turned to the other, and both leaned in to light a pipe.
He dashed into the passageway. After rounding the first turn, he crouched and listened. No guards came running.
The only sounds were the shifting of leaves and the pattering of rain. Lantern light danced on an arched wall to Callam’s left while, across the way, black lichen grew on columns that led to a manor-side garden. Nearing the pillars, he noticed that the air smelled damp and sweet, like a barrel of wine left out in the rain. A small fountain gurgled by his feet, and he leaned over to drink his fill.
Some tension drained from his shoulders.
The wind held still. Silence fell, the type that all prey know. As if ice was pressed against his spine, every hair on Callam’s neck rose. Someone was watching. Prowling. He was sure of it. Shadows filled the corners of his eyes; they stretched and wove and played tricks on his mind.
He needed to run. Now.
Shooting forward, he aimed for the plants that bordered the manor. His first step felt like moving lead, but each subsequent one came easier.
Less than ten paces later, the storm picked up. The feeling of being watched passed.
Callam shivered, taking cover amongst the foliage. There, he waited for his terror to fade. He’d spent years on the streets honing his instincts—it seemed those long nights had left him jumpy as well.
‘Fear long enough, and it becomes loud,’ he reminded himself. That stanza carried more weight with the orphans than the Sisters could ever know.