What is about a good book that moves us?

  The spoken word can strike fear, kindle hope, stir longing,

  Yet the only magic I’ve ever found,

  Is between two worn pages.

  ~~ Critic Viel, on the nature of fiction

  Callam decided to feign being sick.

  This wasn’t his first time lying to get out of a lecture. Of course, those talkings-to had been deserved, handed out by the Sisters when he’d arrived past curfew, or been sloppy with his chores.

  It was his first time leaving class early. The Sisters had only held lessons on Sundays, and Siela had loved learning. Out of respect for her memory, he’d attended them religiously after she’d passed.

  “Permission to be excused, professor?” he asked, feeling every bit like a Ruddite. Tomebound weren’t known for seeking leave to use the washroom. “Something didn’t sit well with me.”

  Several people laughed, Airster among them. Lenora gave him a searching look, somewhere between worried and amused.

  Callam did not care. Better he sounded simple than yell out in pain. Tapping his foot against the ground, he forced himself not to glance at his hand–with each passing second, he became more certain his flesh would melt.

  “Second bell is in under half an hour,” Wisewick replied, her focus still on the slate. “Best be quick if you’re to make it bac–”

  He was out the door before she finished her sentence, heart racing.

  The facilities were near the commissary, so he rushed that way, ducking into a bright enclave hidden behind a hanging tapestry. Without stopping to secure the curtains, he ripped the cloth free from his finger.

  The pain dulled; he slumped as relief flooded through him.

  Where moments before his skin had throbbed worse than if he’d run it under boiling water, now his finger felt cool to the touch. If anything, the puckered scar looked like it had shrunk.

  That realization invited a new wave of panic.

  A quick pull of the curtains trailing down the room’s one window confirmed the Seedling hadn’t dimmed–by his eye it glowed as brightly as ever, illuminating all four corners of the nook’s floor.

  He released a held breath.

  What triggered it, then? The fabric? He didn’t need Siela’s mind to know that didn’t make sense–the Seedling had been covered for the better part of the morning without issue.

  Is it sensitive to… history? Callam would have chuckled, had the memory of his earlier agony not been so bright in his mind. Yet, silly as it seemed, Seedlings were said to listen in, and he felt certain his had already helped translate spells for him.

  Yes.

  Perhaps he was onto something… though no wishtales spoke of Seedlings causing pain. At least not the ones he’d heard. None spoke of unbound finding them either. It wasn’t an encouraging thought.

  Well, there was one easy way to find out.

  After stopping at the lavatory to wash his hands–commitment was key to any act–Callam replaced his bandage and rushed back to class. Now was not the time to dally. Taking too long would only invite speculation from Lenora and everyone else, and also risk more people figuring out his secret.

  That the elders already knew was troublesome enough.

  Tonight though… tonight he’d sneak off and do more research. Assuming this next test bears no fruit. There was a reason the stanzas warned that “riches unread made starving men”–too much mystery could consume a person.

  Callam shuddered.

  He’d seen it happen to the chapelward’s foundlings: those abandoned by their families would ask questions that held no good answers. The not-knowing would inevitably haunt them. Poison their lives until obsession replaced reason.

  Siela was right, he realized. We were the lucky ones.

  “... First and Second’s magic was drained by the third, " Wisewick was saying as he made his way back in his seat. She’d taken up some chalk and was writing notes over her own magicked mosaic. “You’ve learned the rest. The Poet, in an act of despair, set against the Winged One on the Tower’s summit with her newly bound tome, and by the gods’ will, her magic brought the storm. Blood poured from the beast. Or, at least, that’s the current theory. Archivists argue the point—early scripts use the word for ink and blood interchangeability. Just another reason why the records are fallible.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  A flurry of movement behind Callam indicated that a student had raised her hand. He took the chance to copy Lenora’s notes, all the while waiting for something to happen to his scar.

  Nothing did.

  Other than a light headache, he felt fine while listening to Wisewick’s lecture and trying to decipher Lenora’s scribbles. For some reason he’d expected the Freemen’s notes to be more tidy.

  Class went on, and he’d about given up on his history theory related to the Seedling when the second bell rang. Sixty chairs scraped on the floor at once, his own bumping up against a nearby desk.

  “We’ll continue on the third Prophet’s fall and the Poet’s ascendence next week. No homework, although you’re each to pick up a copy of Treaties and Chronicles of the First Binding for the semester’s reading. A truly riveting work, you’ll find. Touches on—”

  A jolt of pain came back bright and quick, and Callam stumbled while reaching for his bag.

  The hour’s notes slipped from his hands.

  “What sickness makes you trip?” Lenora whispered, kneeling next to him to help clean up the mess. She stacked the pile neatly together, then pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Moose says all men lie. I say he’s wrong.”

  “Oh?” At least the pain was manageable this time; already it had started to fade.

  “I say all men lie badly.” She threw him a mischievous smile that set his heart racing again. “So? Which is it? Spell feedback, or something else…?”

  “Neither,” he said, choosing his next words carefully. Why was she so good at reading him? “A bit of both.”

  Then, unwilling to say more on the topic, he thanked her for the papers and began packing quickly.

  “They misnamed you, Seeker.” She stood up and, in a surprising impression of Wisewick’s voice, added, “We fated search for the truth. Not obscure it.”

  “We chapelward are known for finding and hiding things.”

  “Mm. Things that aren’t yours, I’d wager.” She said it so casually he couldn’t help but laugh. Yet, when she looked him in the eyes, there was more in her expression than mirth. There was something he couldn’t place.

  Not until he remembered Moose's earlier warning.

  She hates liars.

  The bell rang again and shouts filled the hallways. Seconds later, students from the next period began to filter in the room.

  “Puzzlework’s next, right?” Callam asked, trying to change the subject. Of all of today’s classes, this one excited him most–both because his streetwise skill should give him a knack for it, and because it was their last indoor one for the day. Afterwards, they were to team up and explore the Tower’s first floor.

  Lenora adjusted her satchel, then tilted her head to the door.

  He took it as an invitation to join her. Together, they walked quietly to the castle’s farthest wing. This time the silence between them was not nearly as comfortable.

  ~~~

  What are the makings of man?

  So read the chalkboard floating upside down in the center of the wing’s highest chamber. Class had already begun, though their professor had yet to make an appearance.

  Callam was not complaining. The awkwardness between Lenora and him had dissipated the moment they’d entered the room—they’d spent the last five minutes perusing with everyone else.

  Eccentricities abounded.

  Along one wall hung a series of broken instruments carved into weapons. He was unfamiliar with most of them, but the long, silver flute did make for a respectable spear. The drum masquerading as a helmet on its left?

  Not so much.

  Though… it did look to be a decent shield from the hundreds of playing cards whizzing through the air–they shot this way and that, ruffling hair and diving under chairs, each easily recognizable from a deck of Seeker’s Talent. While at first the commoners seemed content to chase one another, eventually they joined together to form a bridge over which a copy of the Prophet and Poet walked. That spectacle then floated around the room, before coming to a stop above five shells set spiral-side-down on the floor.

  Of those five, the smallest shell was the only common one. Coral pink, it stood in stark contrast to the largest specimen, a lime green behemoth that dwarfed the broken harp and excuded the fierce scent of sea. The middle shell was even more unusual—with its retractable beak it could have passed for an oceanstrider. Bored students had already taken to teasing the mandible with their quills, causing the spike to shoot up and down with considerable force.

  Callam found it all fascinating.

  The other four-star tomebound were not so easily impressed. “Is this, eh… common?” asked Feliv from Combat Training. “In Vialis, we do not wait on professors.” He smiled politely, though he directed his question solely at Lenora.

  It was hard for Callam not to feel ignored.

  “In the South, such delays are rude,” voiced Tige. Like Feliv, she’d rejoined them after disappearing during the last period, and was currently eying the shells, annoyed. “Our late lose face.’”

  Lenora shrugged, clearly a little uncomfortable. “Maybe our schedules updated?”

  A quick ruffle through her tome confirmed their planners had stayed the same. Yet their professor remained absent while the minutes crawled by.

  What’s going on?

  Hadn’t they been told over and over again how important their education was, given the uptick in invading beast waves? Surely, their Puzzlework Professor wouldn’t miss a lecture with all that was at stake. Or take the time to set up the floating chalkboard, strange shells, and broken instruments.

  None of it made sense. Unless…

  Something in Callam’s mind clicked. Rushing up to the nearest shell, he put his ear to it. Hopefully, this worked. Else he’d look the lackwitt.

  The soft sound of ocean waves rang through the room.

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