Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"Once he let them read for pleasure. Once he let them burn."

–Apostle Piot

The Seedling cracked like overblown glass. At once, its trunk caved in, its branches snapped violently as if trodden upon, leaves wilted, and ornaments crashed. The whole of the tree appeared to melt into sand before his eyes.

Callam staggered backwards in shock. The back of his legs hit the edge of his cot and he sat down heavily, his shoulders slumping under the weight of a deep exhaustion. I killed it, he realized. It needed magic. Or something. For a long while, he simply stared at the Seedling’s remains, his mind in a daze.

After a long while, he stood. His room was a mess; if left in this state, he’d be flogged for sure. He began to brush what sand he could under his cot, then went to gather up the books. Small acts of preparation, he thought bitterly. Pages hung loose everywhere. He stacked a few of the hardcovers, picked them up, and walked over to the shelf.

Something clattered to the floor: a small ring had tumbled out of a book’s spine. The stone set within it was no bigger than a pebble, yet it shone with the deep, wild green of a forest.

Callam’s heart soared. He’d held onto some small hope that he hadn’t failed the Seedling’s test—a hope that had dwindled with each passing moment. Kneeling down, he marveled at the silver tree penciled into the gold band. Two nesting birds adorned the branches, and all the etchings seemed surprisingly detailed, despite the ring's apparent age.

Tentatively, Callam lifted the ring. For a long moment, he held it close, overcome by a feeling that only those with nothing know: a yearning to own something that hadn’t been stolen but earned. After slipping it on, he watched in wonder as it began to glow. Mildly at first, like an ember from a cooled forge, then so bright that Callam had to squint to see it. All at once, it melted into a streak of silver that circled his finger. Around and around it went, until Callam felt dizzy. His skin began to absorb the liquid, and he was vaguely aware that the ring was staining his finger white.

~~~

“Look at this mess—a rat’s nest. I’m telling you, that’s just how they live,” one male guard said to another, then prodded Callam’s unconscious form with a steel-toed boot. Squatting down, he shoved Callam onto his side. “Well?” the guard demanded. “You forget how to sleep in a cot? Or too stupid to learn?”

“…'s going on,” Callam mumbled as he blinked awake. His head was pounding something fierce, so he shut his eyes and tried to remember what had happened the night before.

“Up, you louse,” the guard demanded, his voice loud enough that Callam groaned and covered his ears.

The guard prodded him again.

“A’right, all right.” Callam’s words came out a bit slurred. Where… am I? he thought groggily, and tried to push himself up onto his elbows. His stomach churned, so he flopped back down a second later. He’d only felt this way once before, when the orphans had first learned of moonshine. They’d left a gallon’s worth of grain alcohol out overnight, then had downed it the next morning. The Sisters had found them face down in the pews hours later—a full day's worth of mucking, shoveling, and heaving guaranteed Callam never wanted to drink again.

Why, then, did his tongue feel heavy?

A kick brought Callam back to the present. Curling up against the abuse, knees to nose, he tried to get his bearings.

“I said Up,” the guard barked. “You’re sure this is the right room?” he added a moment later, his ire now clearly directed at someone else. Another guard? Callam wondered. “There’s no way Pell and Kent got sacked for this,” the gruff man insisted, and Callam got the distinct feeling that the guard had just gestured at his prone form.

“It’s the right one, sir!” another voice chimed in, a touch too enthusiastically. “I checked twice. But, uh. Careful touching him, sir. The pastor warned of feral folk, remember?”

“Feral?” Callam groaned, turning over to face his tormentors. His hand cupped his eyes. “Just because I’ve fallen asle—”

His sentence was cut short as he finally registered his surroundings. Two men stood above him, leering; the first was tall, with broad shoulders and a jaw as square as a cinder block; the second was thin and young, with the round cheeks of a man who’d never quite lost his baby fat. Each was armored in glinting mail, adorned by a fine blue surcoat, and carried a polished book-bag docking a grimoire.

Neither was dressed in the dirty drab of the city watch.

And, looking around, Callam found that he was not asleep on the streets, but on the floor of an infirmary of sorts, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. His confusion rose as he took in the sterile smell of the room, the scattered books and pages, and even the looming white walls. All felt strangely…familiar.

Callam screamed as a stomp flattened his hand into the floor. He withdrew it immediately, cupping it to his chest. Thankfully, the pain brought with it his memories; he sorted through them as he looked for words to mollify the men.

The older guard lifted his boot a second time.

“Don’t! This isn’t…” Callam shouted. Helena had warned him that these guards were unlikely to be kind, but he hadn’t expected them to treat him like a prisoner. I am one, though, Callam remembered with a start.

The guards ignored his pleas. The larger of the two swung his leg out, this time directing his foot at Callam’s chest.

Having finally gathered his wits, Callam shifted his weight down and to the left. He raised his forearms and deflected the boot, the movement earning him the time needed to dodge a lazy follow-up kick; once he had, he scrambled backwards until stone pressed up against his spine. Though now trapped, Callam had gained a better vantage point. Better yet, he’d found his voice.

“I’ll need bandages,” he stated as matter of factly as he could. Sitting up a little straighter, he glanced down at the imprint of the boot on his hand and tried not to shudder. A thread of pale skin circled his pointer finger: all that was left of the ring he’d donned the night before.

“And why is that, then?” the lead guard asked with a small chuckle. He lumbered forward. “You only need one good hand to Bind.”

“Because, I’m a ward of the Writs,” Callam replied in a practiced, sincere tone. “They get a fee, should I fail my binding and go to auction. I imagine being crippled will affect the bids,” he added, then raised his injured hand for good measure.

Of course, Callam had no way of knowing the validity of his words, but the truth mattered little in games of confidence, and Callam would have lied through his teeth to save himself a beating.

“Sir, is that true?” the younger guard spoke up, a pained look on his face.

“Go fetch Helena,” the older man snapped back at him. Whirling on Callam, he whispered, “Boy, you’d do well to wrap that hand up before she—”

“Will do,” Callam interrupted. Placatingly, he added: “There is no need for Helena; I’ll be fine.”

The senior guard gave Callam a measured look. “Hold it, Tawn,” he instructed after a moment. “Best we don’t bother the family with this.” To Callam, he added, “Dress. Yourself and the wound. Before I change my mind.”

Callam quietly let out a sigh of relief. Inwardly, he worried about meeting the caregiver. She’d been the one to suggest that he read the books on the shelf, and he still didn’t know if that had been deliberate guidance or simple coincidence; it felt too great a risk to take. What if she recognized the white band on his finger? Or if she mentioned it in passing to someone who did?

Rushing to the bed, Callum slipped one hand under the pillow. He grabbed the pendant and string he’d hidden there, fastening the first behind his neck and the second loosely around his damaged hand. Then he leaned down and flipped over the basket that had fallen to the ground. The long-sleeved tan tunic he found inside felt too soft to be truly secondhand, as if its owner had worn it a single time before tossing it aside. The pants were equally fine, and Callam almost tore them in his haste to pull them on. He shoved the bread and cheese Helena had given him into his mouth, rind and all, and chewed quickly.

Slipping on the pair of sandals last, Callam looked every bit a merchant’s son—his shirt even bore the Writ’s emblem.

The guards either didn’t notice, or they didn’t care.

They were busy talking among themselves, so Callam turned his attention to his hand. His palm was scraped up, and his fingers were all tender to the touch, but he could make a fist without much effort. His thumb, however, was worse off and ached terribly. For a second he feared he might have sprained it, until a knuckle popped and most of the pain subsided.

Confident his hand still functioned, Callam focused on the stain on his finger. His heart sped up at the sight of it—the night before still felt like a fever dream. Yet it had been real; he’d somehow found and solved a Seedling. The blemish’s existence proved that.

What it meant for him, he had no idea.

Touching the band of white skin, Callam noticed how it was both smooth and slightly raised, like a scar. With a jolt, he realized that it was the only part of his finger that hadn’t started to bruise—the stained skin seemed impervious to damage, in the same way that a scar seemed impervious to hair. Unfortunately, that was the only abnormal thing about it.

On a whim, Callam brought his hand close to his face and whispered to it, all the while glancing around to make sure the guards weren’t listening in. He’d heard stories of mages who’d named their Seedlings and spoken to them, so he figured he’d give it a try.

No luck—no ring appeared on Callam’s finger. Not that he’d really expected it to. Walking over to the side of his cot, he sat down, unsure of what to try next. He began to feel a bit crestfallen; he’d really hoped the Seedling would give him an edge in the trials, but it seemed he’d need to bind successfully for it to do anything magical at all.

Callam was not given much time to fret, however, as the older guard suddenly barked, “Tawn, cuff the kid. Magic him too. Should help with the pain.” Looking Callam dead in the eyes, the man said, “try something stupid, and the Writs won’t mind what I do.”

He needn’t have worried. Callam had no intention of giving the guards any grief. He watched as Tawn approached, then stood still as the man secured a pair of manacles behind his back.

“Sangud,” Tawn recited.

Magic traveled down Callam’s arm, its warmth tickling him as it mitigated the pressure behind his blackened fingernails. The spell subsided after a moment, leaving Callam’s right hand mostly numb and slightly cold.

“Prisoner ready for passage,” Tawn announced.