Chapter One: A Slip from Death

  "Dreams are the mutiny of the common man."

  ~~Verse Ten of The First Binding

  In Port Cardica, every streetwise orphan memorized three rules to survive:

  First, no thieving on Sundays. The Sisters brought free food, but if anyone stole, no one ate.

  Second, don’t cross the nobles. They needed someone to blame for the city’s unrest—it’d be you.

  Third, a fool’s prayer always follows danger. So if you planned on doing something stupid, pray first.

  Tonight, Callam Quill was breaking all three in a brazen attempt to become a mage.

  He dangled from an oceanside cliff, fingers straining to bear his weight. Stones cut into his skin. High above him stood his mark, a coastal manor with the gothic arches and spires popular among the port’s elite. Wind whipped along the length of the shoreline below, buffeting him as he searched for better footing and found none.

  Words could not describe how cold he was.

  “C-crow’s foot,” he swore, squinting to his left, then right. Nothing but rock, slick as seaglass. Freedom, and his best chance to fulfill the promise to his sister, lay atop this cliff, yet he could see no easier way up. Only one option remained: a notch the size of his thumb.

  Just the look of it made his hands cramp.

  Pebbles broke loose as he stretched out his right arm, trusting his left to anchor him to the wall. An intense moment of focus later and…

  Made it.

  All he had to do now was finish this climb and steal a spellbook before Binding Day. Doing so was imperative, as the upcoming ceremony would force all unbound seventeen-year-olds to bind, with terrible odds of success. Failure meant more than losing access to magic and literacy.

  It meant becoming a Ruddite. A slave to the tomebound.

  Jaw tightening, Callam reached for the next handhold. That won’t happ—

  A gust howled its approach.

  Callam felt the bite of the wind first, followed by its pull. He tried to resist, but tired as he was, could not keep his purchase; his grip flagged, then failed as he was pried from the cliff.

  His stomach lurched.

  It's not written! he thought while he fell. It’s not written! The prayer was one of many shared by the chapel’s Sisters in lieu of lessons or love. Repetition had gotten him fed, but memorization had gotten him seconds, so Callam had learned them all by heart.

  Little good they did him now. For all their promised protections, the stanzas offered none here.

  Instinct kicked in, and he threw his hands out. His calluses tore as he traded skin for friction on the rock face. Then something caught—all at once, fabric ripped, stone scraped against his abdomen, and the air was forced from his lungs. He was left hanging like a rag doll, eyes shut tight against an avalanche of gravel peppering him like hailstone.

  Only when the rock-shower passed did he manage a labored breath. Trembling, Callam unhooked his tunic from the rock spur it had snagged on, and clambered to a nearby perch. Debris coated his dark hair. His brown eyes watered from the dust.

  “B-by the prophet,” he choked out. He was shivering, stunk of sea salt, and hurt all over. Yet was thankful he’d survived.

  A quick flex proved he hadn’t broken any fingerbones, though a cough brought about that sting every kicked street rat knew so well. Soft prods confirmed the fear: a bruised rib, maybe broken. Beggars too quick to ignore these types of injuries would end up plagued by the stitcher’s cough.

  It was reason enough to consider giving up.

  Not happening. Forcing himself to his feet, Callam reached for the wall. I promised Siela.

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  His late sister would have wanted him to see this through. “Stand tall when others falter,” she’d always said. Quitting would only serve to doom him to a lifetime of slaving for those blessed by scripture.

  Better he fail than bow.

  For years, he’d watched orphans queue up to receive their spellbooks, only to go from hopeful to horrified when the ink failed to take. Their shouts haunted his memories; the binding rite was supposed to be painless, yet shattered dreams rarely were. The dark lines that soon formed under their eyes proved the Ruddite orphan never lacked for work—there was always a steady business in selling them to the patrons of the port.

  Focus.

  Callam took a deep breath and shook his arms out one at a time. Less than ten feet separated him from the edge. It was rumored 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, pulse racing. Was he so far behind schedule that the watch was changing now? Peeking upwards, he could just 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 wind swept away whatever the men said next as they paced further down the perimeter.

  Relief washed over Callam. With three quick movements he cleared the lip and hauled himself up onto the headland, pain lancing through his ribs at the exertion. “Made it,” he wheezed once a glance around confirmed he was alone. “Thank the Poet.”

  After standing gingerly, he began winding his way through the dark grounds. Shadows moved with the shifting cloud cover. He kept to them. Much as he wished to stop and check his injuries, now wasn’t the time—he had to hurry to the markers he’d memorized in preparation for this heist. A monument, tower, outdoor foyer, and grand staircase. Together, they’d lead to the estate's collection of scripted grimoires.

  To magic. And a way out of this blasted city.

  A line of trees hid his approach as he crept toward the outline of an open pavilion, trying his best not to make a sound. The manor he hoped to rob loomed in the distance, its 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, wet grass squelching loudly underfoot.

  He prayed the creaking branches would muffle the noise.

  Soon he reached a bordering hedge. Peering around it, he looked for any guards… and shot forward. The area was empty except for a speaker's lectern. A marble 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. Callam grinned—the Sisters would have hated to see the sculpture tarnished, but the thief in him could appreciate a flair for the melodramatic.

  The second marker, a manned bartizan with sentries on the 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 darkness. 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.

  Slouching against a topiary, Callam prepared to wait.

  Sneaking past these two wouldn’t be easy. Yet he’d chosen today for a reason—it was Penance, and no mage worth their salt would spend the holiday working for another. Keen-eyed or not, these men would not be that gifted.

  Moonlight flickered as more clouds rolled in. It began to drizzle, then rain.

  At last his chance came when one guard turned to the other, and both leaned in to light a pipe. Callam dashed into the passageway, rounded the first turn, and crouched to listen. No one came running.

  The only sounds were the blowing leaves and the pattering of rain. Lantern light danced on the wall to his left while, across the way, black lichen grew on the columns leading to a manor-side garden. Something smelled sweet and earthy—for a moment he wondered if a wine barrel had been left to soak overnight. Gurgling drew his attention to the small fountain at his feet. Parched as he was, he leaned over for a drink.

  Then the wind held still.

  A silence fell, the type that all prey know. He froze. Something… no, someone was watching. Waiting. He was sure of it. Like ice was pressed against his spine, every hair on his neck bristled. Shadows danced in 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 lined the border of the manor.

  He’d made it less than ten paces when the storm picked back up—quickly as it had come, the feeling of being watched faded. Shivering, he took cover amongst the foliage. There, he waited for his terror to pass. Years on the streets had honed his instincts, though it seemed those long nights had left him jumpy as well.

  ‘Fear left to linger grows loud,’ he whispered once he’d calmed down. That stanza carried more weight with the orphans than the Sisters could ever know.