The Savage Caves

2

Naull ran a hand through her short, straight hair and sighed. She had prepared the spell that morning, along with four others, and it was a simple matter of tracing a pattern in the air in front of her with one finger while whispering a series of arcane syllables to make the magic real. She sat at a rough oak table in the dining room of her mentor’s tower and let the magical energies flow through her fingers, through the words that slipped off her tongue, and onto the leather pouch on the table in front of her.

There was no flash of lightning or explosion of fire, but Naull could see the air over the table sparkle for the space of maybe the blink of an eye. There was a wide tear in the bottom of the old pouch, and as the sparkles faded, the tear closed. In the time it took for Naull to draw in a single breath, the pouch, which her mentor had assured her was older than Naull herself, looked as if it had been newly made.

She clicked her teeth together and looked over at the little room’s only window. It wasn’t really so much a window as an arrow loop—a thin, vertical sliver of light no wider than one of Naull’s slender hands. It was sunny outside, still a few hours before dark. She heard wind blowing through leaves beyond but couldn’t see the trees. The dining room was a good hundred feet up the tall, slender tower that was the secluded home of her mentor, the wizard Larktiss Dathient.

Naull stood and crossed to the window. She peered through the thin opening and out into the warm air. Below were the well-manicured gardens that kept her busy in the spring and fall. Beyond was a small forest, rolling hills, and the world she had seen so little of in her eighteen years.

The fresh air felt good, at least, and made her feel less sleepy. She knew she shouldn’t be tired, but boredom could do that to you, and Naull was crushingly bored. She rubbed her stiff neck, and her hand brushed her right ear. This made her realize that she hadn’t put on her earrings that morning. Her hair was cut short, well above her shoulders because it was easier to take care of and didn’t get in the way of her spellcasting and other duties. She wore a man’s tunic and breeches for the same reason.

The window faced west, and she knew that somewhere over the horizon was the city of New Koratia. She might look ridiculous there with her boy’s haircut and man’s clothes, but at least there would be something to do there, people and things to see, some kind of life not limited to learning how to use something she was never permitted to use. There might be—there would be—men.

She heard the door open and didn’t turn around.

“Staring out the window again?” Larktiss asked, his voice dripping with overstated disapproval. “I’ve brought the heavier needle.”

Naull pressed her face into the thin arrow loop and said, “It’s done already.”

She closed her eyes and listened to the old man shuffle over to the table, pick up the magically mended pouch, and throw it back down again.

“There was a reason I asked you to fix it with a needle and thread, Naull,” he said.

She took her face off the stone but didn’t turn around.

“I want to leave,” she said.

“We’re going to have this conversation again, then, are we?” the old man asked.

Naull turned to him, and her hands went to her hips. She started to say, “Larktiss—”

Her tone made her feel instantly guilty, and she took her hands from her hips and shook her fingers to keep from clenching them into fists.

“You’re not a prisoner here, child,” Larktiss said. “You know you never have been, and you never will be.”

“I don’t want to just leave, Larktiss. I want you to understand why I have to go.” She looked at the floor. “I want your blessing.”

“And you’ll have it,” he replied, “in due time.”

Naull couldn’t stop her hands from curling into fists, but she kept her arms at her sides. “I have been a good student,” she said. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me to do. I can’t stay here forever.”

The old man smiled, showing yellow teeth. His face was as kindly as ever, and though Naull usually found his easy manner and deeply lined, wise face comforting, sometimes she thought he looked like the world’s kindliest jailer. His white hair—what was left of it—was as disheveled as always, but his long, brown robe was immaculately clean. Naull returned his smile.

“I never said you had to stay here forever, Naull,” Larktiss said. “I do wish I could tell you precisely how much longer you should stay, but magic is not an exact science. It’s more an art. You have learned the most basic elements of the craft, but you lack both experience and an understanding of the nuances. A young mage with your limited abilities and your seemingly limitless self-confidence—” with this his smile was gone all together, and his soft face went hard—“could be more dangerous than—”

“If I lack experience,” Naull interrupted, “it’s because I’ve hardly left this damned tower in the last six years. I have learned your lessons and mended your pouches and darned your socks and fetched the water… Is that the sort of experience you had in mind?”

The old man looked disappointed, and Naull had to look at the floor again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Larktiss,” she said, “and I don’t want to defy you. You have taught me well and treated me better. I don’t know where I would be if you hadn’t taken me in. I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay, but…”

“But your wisdom has outgrown mine,” he said, his voice unusually weak.

She looked at him and sighed. “No, Larktiss, my wisdom hasn’t outgrown yours, my… curiosity… ambition… I don’t know. I have outgrown this place. I need to be around more than one person, for Boccob’s sake.”

“I know,” he said, looking at the floor the same way Naull had. “I have had other students. They have always come to me, just like you, and told me that it was time for them to leave. I let them go, the same way I suppose I’ll let you go. At first it was because I thought they were right, then because I couldn’t convince them that I was right. Either way, they left to see the world and experience its wonders and dangers. I watched all of them from here, unable to do anything but observe.”

The old man stopped talking and stood. Naull could hear his old joints creak. He looked at her with sadness drawing the corners of his eyes down. Naull felt her eyes fill with tears.

“I’ve had twenty students,” Larktiss continued, “including you. Do you know how many of them are still alive?”

Naull didn’t answer.

“You,” he said. “Only you.”

She drew in a breath and stood there, arms at her sides, a single tear rolling down one cheek.

The old man sighed so heavily it was as if all the air rushed out of him at once. He seemed to deflate in front of her. Naull almost reached out to steady him but didn’t.

He looked at her with an obviously forced smile and asked, “Where will you go?”

She had to clear her throat, then pause for a moment before she could say, “Fairbye, to start, I suppose. I can pick up the trade road from there to New Koratia and beyond.”

The old man nodded and said, “Beyond…”

“I have no intention of getting myself killed,” she said.

The old man shrugged. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “You’re a good little mage, Naull, and with luck you might live to be great one, but there is something you need to understand.”

Naull waited while Larktiss struggled with what he felt he had to say next.

“If you leave here before I believe you’re ready,” he said finally, “you will not be welcomed back.”

Naull sniffed, wiped the tears from her face, and said, “Like hell, old man. I’ll be back to visit you every year, no matter what life hands me, no matter where I end up.”

The old man nodded, but his eyes were distant. Naull understood that he believed it wouldn’t matter if she was welcomed or not or intended to return or not. He was sure he would never see her again.

“Fairbye,” he said, crossing slowly, stiffly to the door. “You’ll need some things. I can give you pouches—you’ll need pouches, you know, for spell components, and—”

He stopped talking so he could keep himself from crying. After a moment, he opened the door.

“Get dressed,” said the old man. “I can spare a backpack, I think, and a torch or three. Don’t forget your spellbook.” He turned to face her, his face serious, his eyes red. “Never, ever forget your spellbook, girl. It is a mage’s—”

“Life,” she finished for him. She’d heard him say it enough. “It’s a mage’s life.”

He smiled weakly and walked through the door. She listened to his shuffling footsteps recede for a minute, then took the pouch from the table and left the room herself.

Larktiss had gone down the steep spiral stairs that ran up the center of the cylindrical tower. Naull went up. She took the steps two at a time—a habit that always annoyed and worried Larktiss—and was through the door into her cramped bedchamber in less than a minute.

She scanned the room quickly, having worked out long ago what she would take with her when she left. There was the crossbow and a quiver of quarrels, a flint and steel, her long, straight quarterstaff. She scooped up the earrings that were all she had left of her mother and put them on. They were heavy, jagged things that only accentuated her boyish haircut, but they were her only possession of any real value.

She stripped out of her work clothes and slid on a pair of beige harem pants she’d sewn herself and never worn, then a long-sleeved, corseted top and a stiff leather riding hood. There was a tall mirror in her room, and she looked at herself. She looked like a traveler, a pilgrim, a wanderer, an adventurer. She looked like anything but a sheltered girl bent to endless study.

She smiled and, taking her staff, turned and walked out of the room she’d called her own for six years without looking back. If she’d thought about it, she might have spent a moment or two soaking in the sights and smells of the tower as she made her way down the long spiral stairs. Instead, she took the stairs practically at a run and almost bowled her aging mentor over when they emptied out onto the ground floor of the tower.

“At least have the good manners not to appear to be in such a gods-bedamned hurry, girl,” Larktiss said, sincerely annoyed.

Naull took a deep breath and steadied herself. The old man held up a strap of old, threadbare pouches. He nodded, and she tipped her head down to let him drape them over her shoulder. The bandoleer was surprisingly light, the leather soft with age. She straightened and forced a smile.

In his other hand he held a little leather sack, bunched together at the top and tied. He handed it to her, and she took it, surprised by the weight.

“A few coins,” he said, then nodded to a backpack on the floor at her feet.

Naull smiled and said, “Larktiss…”

“Bah,” the old man scoffed, waving a hand at her. “Don’t get too excited, girl, they’re mostly coppers… but they’ll get you started if you stay clear of thieves and avoid the finer things in life.”

Naull laughed, and Larktiss looked away. She was sure she saw the old man smile. He turned and opened the door, letting in the bright late afternoon sun and the warm, muggy air. Naull bent and grabbed the backpack, slipping it around her shoulders. It was heavy.

Her mentor waved her out the door, avoiding her eyes as she passed. She stopped in the doorway to give him a kiss on the cheek. He did smile then, and patted her on the shoulder the way he always did when he didn’t know what else to do.

“Farewell, Larktiss,” Naull said, stepping out of the tower into the wide world.

He said nothing, just closed the door behind her.