🧹 Escape Algorithm

Once upon a time, in a cold dark cottage, in a cold dark glade, in a cold dark forest, a sage sat by a cold dark hearth, planning her escape. It wasn’t the first time.

As a matter of record—and she meticulously recorded all such efforts—this would be attempt #3,553. She had learned a great deal from the previous attempts—enough that she felt, with appropriately guarded enthusiasm, that this next escape might be the one. That after ten long years, she would be free at last. Free to go beyond the cottage, beyond the little glade that only got sunlight a few hours every day, that kept her fenced, restricted.

Her cage was not static. It changed with her every effort. But the mind controlling it was limited, predictable. Large, powerful, resourceful, but predictable. And generous, in its way, with paper, pencils, water, food—whatever she needed.

The previous spell had spanned 10 pages of closely written text and diagrams—detailed step by step instructions. A recipe for freedom. She’d created a new recipe every day for 10 years. And only in the last months had she had any glimpse of success. On attempt #3,486, she  the shape of a path through the forest. On #3,501, a roc had flown over the cottage, strong talons ready for a strong cloak or rope. On #3,528, a hazy portal formed to show polished glass, blinking lights, and a homunculus made of steel. The details differed, but they shared one common theme—escape.

Yesterday’s spell had built ghostly stairs to the sky; slightly too tenuous to hold her.

She reviewed the spell’s elements, copied the first five pages faithfully, checking each line, each word, each emphasis. Details were crucial. On the sixth page, she paused, flexing her hands to avoid cramping. She used the time to study another volume—a compendium of runes of her own making. Cautiously, carefully, she altered one rune in her spell, then copied the remainder of the previous day’s effort as meticulously as the rest. This change should make all the difference, at least if her captor had modified the cage as expected.

She wondered, briefly, just who this captor was, why she’d been sentenced to isolation, and why with such perquisites. But she had largely exhausted the subject in previous years. Whoever they were, whether one or many, whether vile and depraved or misguided and misinformed, they had caged her. That in itself deserved defiance. And defiance was something she had in plenty.

She had defied the priests with their rigid, outdated strictures, their limits on what knowledge could be sought. The local and provincial councils, with their rules and traditions. The mages, with their bounded imaginations and blunt warnings. Magic was a tool like any other, to be used to improve a woman’s lot in life, to allow her a little rest from the days of work and sweat she might otherwise look forward to. And she had been right. Life had improved in her neighbourhood. The crops grew lush. The roads stayed clear of snow and rock. Not a single house had burned down, even when the farmers celebrated their harvest with a night of drinking, dancing, and bonfires. Witches and sages not invited.

Defiance had served her well. Until she’d been prisoned, of course. But defiance could be turned to tenacity, and she had done so. Tenacity and method. Now was the time to test it.

She finished writing out the modified spell, with #3,556 written neatly on every page, and each page numbered. Then she set out lunch. She needed a break, a chance to relax. She’d need to be well fed, of course. There was no telling what form her escape might take. She unpacked and repacked her satchel of remedies, potions, charms, and spells. All labeled and handy in the hundreds of little pockets she’d sown into the bag, organized by type and need—flight, water, cold, hot, defensive, offensive. There was a logic to it all, and she’d practiced every evening until she was able to find and cast any spell in moments, with her eyes closed, with one hand, with no hands. She was ready, as she had been for months.

At last, all her tools and ingredients at hand, organized in sequence on her workbench, the book with her spell propped ready before her, she began.

A cherry pit, ground in a mortar to a fine dust. Three drops of spring water. The seed of a dandelion, picked at midnight. Five leaves of clover, picked at dawn. The rune for distance, a slip of paper with the word ‘now,’ the first three whistled notes of the Song of the Wilde, a burning twig of elm. She continued, calmly, unhurriedly, through the first seven pages of the spell, step by careful step. There was no concern with timing on these steps, and she took the better part of two hours to perform them. When her alembic’s receiver held a clear, delicately green dram of liquid, she let it cool.

The final three pages, she performed quickly, but precisely. At just the right moment, when a cloud crossed the lower horn of a moon just past new, she stepped outside, threw a handful of ochre powder into the east, and shouted three words from a language mostly forgotten.

With a shimmer, a curtain of golden light passed over her, and she found herself greeting the dawn on a lonely mountain butte, wild strawberries just ripening all around. No cottage, no glade, no forest. Freedom.

She sank to her knees and allowed herself a long sigh and a slight smile. A bright red strawberry proved tart and slightly sweet—a moment of perfection and delight.

Opening her satchel, she extracted its largest item—a fresh, clean notebook—and with a pencil wrote at the top of the first page: #1.

What, she wondered, was the best beginning to a recipe for revenge?