Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

“All Ruddites are to receive a minimum of two daily breaks.

Livestock need time to graze.”

Of People and Produce, Third Decree of King Gael II

“Pass the peas, please!” said the little girl in a threadbare dress, glee lighting up her face.

“Me next! Me next!” shouted a young orphan boy in an oversized shirt, jumping up and down in his chair. Callam did as they asked, a smile on his face. He couldn’t remember being this happy in a long time.

He was seated at the head of the chapelward’s table, a designation reserved for the most important visitors. Rough cotton clung to his chest and legs; that morning, he had changed from his soiled linen to the last of his clean clothes and then had spent an hour staring at his grimoire. Try as he might, he couldn’t make heads or tails of his first incantation, “Infer Atrea Intus.” Pronouncing the phrase proved easy—but the words felt heavy on his lips, as if he’d coated them in a thick salve. After thirty or more attempts, all he had managed to do was parch his throat.

The Sisters had saved him from further failures by announcing lunch.

Now, orphans surrounded Callam, excitedly eating their fill. Offerings were pretty slim on weekdays, so word had spread quickly among the street kids. Every food Callam could imagine was plated and shared: prince peas, peeled and boiled; sailor’s seagull, the port’s specialty; two types of duck; Alvero greens, washed and chopped; and no less than three different fruits. Biting into one, Callam savored the sweet flesh, then grinned as two of the older orphans tussled over some bread. The Sisters were sure to give them a talking-to later, but at the moment, they seemed content to watch and glare from their places at the corners of the long table.

“Uhm, uhm! Callllluum, can you cast magic and… and spells for us,” said that very same young girl as she piled up on peas. “Pleeeease?”

“Alice! What have we told you about pestering adults?” chided one of the kinder Sisters, Nahnie. In her mid-fifties, she was dressed in chapel browns, and had always shown a warmth toward the children that the older nuns did not. Her face was lined from years of wearing a stern expression, yet Callam had never seen her use a reed.

“It’s no bother,” Callam replied after he finished chewing. “I’d love to cast magic for you… but I can’t—not yet, at least! I’ll have to go to the Tower first.” He didn’t mention that he had less than sixteen days to figure out the spell in his grimoire otherwise… well he wasn’t sure what would happen, but it couldn’t be good.

“Are you sc-scared?” asked a sniffly boy seated about four chairs down. Callam was happy to hear him speak up—he'd heard the kid was struggling to adapt to life on the streets.

“Terrified, but the scary things are the ones worth doing,” he replied, shooting the kid a grin. “Just like panning or shining shoes, it takes confidence to get started.” Stealing requires that too, he thought but kept to himself. The Sisters would not take kindly to mentions of criminal activity, even if he was the one being celebrated.

"Di... mmh..." said a quiet, small girl across the table before trailing off. "Did..." she tried again. Blond-haired and raggedy, she looked no older than five. She rocked left and right nervously—Callam guessed that she was sitting on her hands.

"It's okay, Rosalina," he said gently, offering her a reassuring smile. When she remained silent, he nodded to the older boy to her left. "Can you ask her what she's curious about?"

Of all the orphans, Rosalina was the one Callam worried the most for. She’d stayed mute every time he’d visited before; the Sisters had explained to him earlier that day that she’d only just begun to talk, mostly to Orian, who looked a lot like her late cousin.

Orian whispered into her ear, and a breath later, she into his.

“She wants to know if ya would teach”—the boy took a bite of duck mid-sentence, then swallowed—“us some of ‘em fightin’ tricks. Gotta say, I’m curious too. The way you stood up during that fight... we were mad impressed.”

“He will do no such thing, Orian,” an elderly nun spoke up after putting down her knife and adjusting her napkin. “Brawling is for thieves and dock rabble.” Callam pitied the boy—he’d been on the receiving end of that look many times before. The nuns loathed many things. Poor manners and slang were near the top of that list.

“But uh, it’d really help us with our tinnin’, ma'am. We could put up shows fo’ sport,” Orian quipped back, sitting up straight. “And fight off interlopers.”

Callam coughed up his greens, and by the look on Nahnie’s face, he hadn't been the only one. Cheeky brat, that boy, Callam thought with a smile. Reminds me of Hans.

The oldest nun—Ms. Stilwell—was not so amused. “Quill is a Seeker now, wards. One of the Fated Few. He has better things to do than to tarry around here. We should be thankful he deigned to share the time he has.”

“I’d love to,” Callam spoke up, starting to hate being treated differently. “Just some grappling I’ve learned over the years. For the ‘tinnin’ of course,” he added with a wink. “But not until tomorrow. I’ve chores to do first, just like all of you.”

“Chores!” several of the kids groaned together. Laughing, Callam joined in. Truth was, they would need to learn how to protect themselves, and he did have some free time prior to heading to the Tower. It was the least he could do.

Today, though, Callam’s plans were set—he was going to pay his respects.

All in all, the walk to the cemetery was a calm one. There had been a fair bit of clothes-grabbing from the younger orphans when he’d made to leave, but some shooing from the Sisters had helped him out the door. Luckily, no one had reached for his grimoire; he would not have tolerated that. From the chapel, Callam traveled through the garden—a mess of local vegetables and poorly potted plants—down two narrow streets with hanging clothes lines overhead, and past a mural of the Poet and her doves. A hundred headstones greeted him, each buried along the roots of a tall willow tree that had survived the encroachment of the city walls. They were adorned with flowers and crossed with the X that Ruddites used to denote love.

The Sisters, for all their faults, cared for the dead.

“I made it, Sis,” Callam whispered, leaning over to rub some grime off Siela’s grave. “Bound a four-star Grimoire too, if you can believe it. Not that you doubted me for a moment. You always had so much confidence. Said we’d travel to the mountains and trees, remember? We can now. We can make Mom and Dad proud. Help the orphans and… and…”

Callam’s voice caught. He sat there for a long moment, lost to his feelings. Lost to the sounds of the city and the birdsong. To the ache in his heart.

Then he stood up, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. For as long as he could remember, he’d loathed graveyards. Loathed the smell of turned dirt and the memories it brought. But today? The day after his binding? Callam smiled, knowing that he’d made his Siela proud.

Before returning home, he gave her tomb another once-over. Normally her grave needed it—her headstone, tucked away under a particularly thick branch, accumulated more dust than most. Not this time, though. Nestled among the roots, bathed in the noon light, and dappled by the shadows of the leaves, it looked cozy. Perfect, even.

At peace among the trees she loved.

“Callam?”

Turning, Callam found Nahnie standing quietly by the entrance to the cove, her hair tied up and a kind look about her face. “Here,” she said, reaching for a leather bag at her side. “The Scriptors left a few things for you last night. I thought it best I share them while away from jealous eyes.”

He nodded—the Sisters were nothing if not practical, and they wouldn’t want the orphans expecting gifts.

“First, this letter.” She handed him a small envelope with a gold crest.

Callam froze. Two objects were etched into the wax seal, a tome and a seed. They know, he couldn’t help but think. Was this their way of telling him they’d noticed the glow on his hand? Will they try and take it from me? Can they? A thousand more questions raced through his mind. Internally, he wrestled with them. Externally, he tried to keep his expression excited and said, “Excellent.”

He’d already planned on learning about Seedlings. Now, it was his priority for the day.

“They left you this as well,” Nahnie added, passing him a small purse—ten copper by the weight of it. “Should help you buy what you need for the Tower, I imagine. And this,” she said, taking off the bag and holding it out, “is from us. It’s rare a chapelward binds, and a tome as powerful as yours is sure to burn when touched.”

“Truly? That’s… thank you!” Callam was genuinely touched. “Poet knows I need one.” Immediately, he began to unwrap his grimoire from the old blanket he’d been using to stifle its heat.

“Lastly, I’ve two things of yours that… that I feel you should have received a long time ago. One is your sister’s laystone. Since she had no literate relatives, it was kept empty. Now that you’re a Seeker and can write, I thought you might want to craft her a mourntale. The second is a note…” Nahnie’s voice trailed off and her face softened.

“Yes?”

“From your mother.”