Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"Take their wishes or their copper. They need neither.

But take their books? Rob them of their stories?

That is how you rewrite culture."

The Bettering of a Populace, Page 15.

When Callam regained his composure, he began to crawl his way through the manor’s undergrowth. Plants, laden with water, dripped onto his already soaked clothes. Eventually, he found himself in an open-air nursery.

Up against one wall, a row of night flowers hung from planters and shone like little lamps in the darkness. Other flora bore fruits the likes of which Callam had never seen. He crept past them cautiously, glancing over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t being followed. All was quiet until a berry floated up and burst, filling the garden with the scent of candy. Callam winced at the sound, and then at the growling of his stomach—going thirty hours without a meal wasn’t easy.

Still, he’d endured worse, and he wouldn’t risk getting sick by eating something unknown tonight.

About fifty feet ahead Callam spotted the third marker: an outdoor foyer. Paving stones led to a pair of golden doors that barred entry to the manor and gleamed in a standing lantern’s glow. They were guarded by lifelike statues; the first was a figure of the Poet, her hands clasping a tome, the second was a sculpture of a wolf, two cracked moons in its maw.

“Fire and folly,” Callam cursed as he approached the stoop. He could hear a buzz coming from both doors. Are they really spell-warded? he wondered.

Callam had spent weeks begging favors and eavesdropping at taverns, yet he'd never once thought to ask about this type of ward. They were useless trinkets in the face of magic, deterrents kept by poor tinkerers and merchants. Never by nobles.

With their grimoires, they don’t need them, Callam thought, his mouth souring. The docks were strung heavy with the bodies of thieves who’d tried to steal from the gentry. Callam had no intention of adding to their number, so he crept away from the doors, hoping to find another way in.

He’d only made it a few paces when a low growl reached his ears. Stopping dead in his tracks, Callam slowly turned his head, a jumble of panicked thoughts crossing his mind. This manor didn’t keep hounds—that, at least, he’d asked the taverngoers about.

Another growl, deeper this time, like the sound of two slabs of granite scraping together. Callam tensed reflexively, but nothing happened. Scanning the foyer, he saw that there were no dogs, just the one statue of a wolf, an errant beam of moonlight upon its snout.

The granite snout wriggled alive as Callam watched. Creases deepened around the canine’s mouth, and jets of steam escaped its nostrils. Callam instinctively took a step back, then another, his eyes locked on the statue. The wolf's whole body shook as more moonlight crept out from behind the storm clouds and further awoke it from its slumber. With a snort, the stony muscles in its neck contracted.

Callam heard a scattering of broken marble hit the foyer’s floor and knew the beast had crunched down on the moons in its mouth. He would have seen it happen, too, had he not already turned away and run.

He sprinted back to the nursery, looking for some way to mask his warmth. Moonheart constructs couldn’t smell and the rocks they had for eyes meant they couldn’t see well either. They mostly tracked heat. Evading one, therefore, required hiding under something dark and cold.

Glancing around, Callam saw a tree. I’ll only strand myself, he thought. The nursery rooftop? No. He couldn’t reach it. Even if he could, it might not bear his weight. “There,” he whispered, and rushed towards a mound of dirt, his heart thudding.

Too late he realized what the mound really was: a waist-high flower bench. It will have to do, he thought, and dove underneath it. Huddling into a ball, he covered himself with damp mulch. Hopefully, it would be enough. The wolf he hoped to evade; it was the guards he was worried about—there was no way they’d missed the statue’s ear-splitting howl.

Seconds passed. Callam counted each one in his head, the waiting killing him. His leg began to itch from the cold dirt he’d pressed onto his skin, and he struggled to ignore the impulse to scratch it. Worse still was the scent of the turned earth: it smelled like a graveyard. He hated graveyards.

They reminded him of her.

“What is it, girl?” Callam heard the sentry’s words before the footsteps that accompanied them. Two short barks and a rumbling woof was the response. “Sense something in the gardens?” the patient voice asked.

A blaze of red and yellow shone on the wall across the nursery. Callam guessed that the guard was waving around a torch—from his position under the flower bench, he had no way to know for certain. All he could do was trust and hope he would not be found.

Two more passes of the bright light. Two more stanzas mouthed by Callam for luck. Finally, he heard the guard say, “Hush, hush...must've been a squirrel.” The man spoke to the statue as a boy would his dog.

The wolf whined. A thudding of steps, a branch snapping too close for comfort, and Callam’s breath hitched.

“Anything there?” the guard called out, walking closer. Light flashed overhead, and Callam saw the silhouette of a dark pair of boots and pants less than ten feet away.

Did they find me? he wondered. His palms began to sweat.

“Come, now,” the sentry said, with an air of resigned patience. “Nothing’s here…best we get you back.” Callam heard the clip of boots on flagstone as the man left the nursery. The scraping of the statue's heavy paws followed shortly thereafter.

After a minute of silence where no one else shouted or peered about, Callam rolled out from under the flower bench. He stood up and brushed himself clean, relieved his plan had worked. Even better, he’d found a path into the manor. The torchlight had illuminated dark ivy that trailed up the nursery’s wall, growing right next to a set of windows.

Windows that he knew exactly how to open.

Each was made of shaded glass and constructed from three panes. Callam was familiar with their style, as it was common around the docks—for reasons unbeknownst to him, the port's pennypawners insisted on mimicking the fashions of the gentry. These windows were likely cut with greater precision and built from thicker wood, but Callam expected he could use the same tricks to get through.

The secret is in the latches, he thought as he reached for the vines. Pieces fell when he tugged. These were not the thick, dirt-matted growths that blanketed deserted mansions; this plant had been pruned back and would struggle to keep him up.

Still, Callam had no choice—he had to steal a grimoire before dawn if he wanted to leave unseen. He leaned over to pick up a pebble, then stood and grabbed fistfuls of the vines. After climbing until he was level with the windows, he tossed the tiny rock he’d collected at them. It bounced off soundlessly.

“No surprises there,” Callam muttered as he clambered over to the nearest window. After all, neverbreak glass was shatterproof; it absorbed everything, even noise. Positioning himself so that his feet balanced on a bottom sill while his hands gripped the thinner one up top, Callam readied a kick. These windows would have been impenetrable, if not for a single oversight: they opened inwards to allow for a breeze on a hot day. And, while the glass itself was unbreakable, the latches locking the windows shut were not.

Callam’s kick landed and he nearly fell when his foot bounced right off the pane. Bracing himself, he tried kicking harder. He couldn’t reach those internal latches, but he didn’t need to—with enough force, the window’s magic would do the work for him.

Still nothing.

Resigned, he tightened his grip on the top sill and pushed off the bottom one with both feet. This better work, he thought, wincing as he swung into the pane.

Feet met glass and the window gave. It opened with a pop as the pane’s magic tried to dissipate the incoming force in all directions, including into the poorly made latches. They broke under the strain, allowing Callam to push his way inside, then drop to the floor.

Landing in a crouch, he found himself in a dark hallway decorated by antiques and paintings. He snuck his way down it, feeling more like an intruder with every step. There was a quiet here that was different from that of the streets—a sense of safety that seeped from the walls. Clearly, the manor’s owners were confident this place could not be breached. The lack of guards confirmed it.

Callam envied that feeling of security. He wished to share in it.

Finally, he reached the fourth marker: a carpeted staircase with polished banisters. Callam climbed it two steps at a time. He was so close to his destination that his pulse raced. At the top of the landing, drawn back curtains revealed the largest private library in Port Cardica.

A lifetime's worth of stories towered upwards from floor to domed ceiling, the shelved books sorted by size and color. Everbright candles bobbed in the air and circled slowly as if lifted by a draft. By their light, Callam spotted stained glass more intricate than any he’d ever slept under. Purple hardcovers filled the highest tiers, accessible only by rolling ladders. Even from a distance, these books were intimidating—regal, with thick and intricate bindings, as if too good for Callam’s patronage. Below them, Callam passed a line of green volumes that he recognized by sight. Carried by every lawman and constable at the Port, they were a codex of the city’s laws.

Nearest to the ground and within easy reach lay rows of red books with warm covers. They begged to be read. Without thinking, Callam touched one of them. It was a reflexive action from years spent hoping and wanting—and it made no difference. Grimoires granted users access to the written word, so without a successful binding, Callam would stay illiterate. The words would slide right off the pages of any book he opened.

He wanted to read, though.

Everyone did, but dockside orphans more than most. They’d huddle by the piers and pinch together halfpennies to pay travelers for tales of far-off places, brave heroes, and outrageous villains; those coins may have been better spent on food, but the stories cut the cold a little. Made the scars hurt less. As Callam grew older, he had learned that novels carried these adventures. They brought life to worlds the likes of which dockboys could only dream of.

And those books aren’t even grimoires, he thought. They do all that with just words.

Rustling drew Callam’s attention upward in a panic, but it was only paperfowl. They nestled among the rafters, cooing at each other. He’d seen a few in his life, when they’d gotten lost mid-flight and wound up by the docks. Made of parchment, the enchanted constructs sang melodies into the nooks and crannies of grand libraries. They helped make the space feel warm and inviting.

At the back of the room, balusters fed into a spiral staircase that coiled upward. Reaching its top, Callam’s eyes went wide. He raced down the deep study, passing two doors and an armchair, before he came to a stop in front of a massive wardrobe. Stored upon it, about ten feet out of reach, were at least ten scripted grimoires, each a different color and each radiating a perceptible weight. They all shared in the telltale signs: ‘Air that shimmers like warm vapor on a cool day. Stars and insignia embedded and bright.’ Turning around in a craze, Callam searched for a way to reach the tomes. All he had to do was touch one and he’d hopefully be able to bind.

No more variance or risk. No more fearing Binding Day. Any magic was better than none.

Yet, there wasn’t a ladder in sight.

Callam had just begun to drag the armchair over when instinct told him that someone was coming. He ignored the impulse, so close to his prize. The sensation grew stronger, turning from a soft nudge to a bright warning.

Voices reached him. Coming closer. Getting louder.

There was no time to think. Callam rushed to the wardrobe’s doors, fingers fumbling, breath strained as he tugged on the knobs. Mages would flog unbound for the smallest of offenses, and trespassing was no minor offense. Finally, he pried open the wardrobe and sheltered among some robes and coats. Slipping both hands out, Callam pulled the heavy doors in. For a moment, he feared that they would squeak dreadfully—but oiled hinges proved a thief's best friend.

With a crash, the study’s doors slammed open.