Caught in Renta

Kelendril jerked awake in his cold, musty cell to the familiar sound of dripping water. Immediately, as was his morning, midday, and evening routine, he began to work his hands loose of the straps locking his fingers and hands together, palm to back of hand, in a single, inexorable knot. Though he could reach out with his mind and touch the flow of magic, shape it, and utter the correct words of power, with his fingers so bound he couldn’t cast the smallest of spells. With a word, a stronger mage would have snapped the bonds and blast a hole through the citadel, ripping it from top to bottom. Kelendril, but a novice, could naught but grind his teeth and slowly soften the straps, day after day, in hopes that the leather would weaken and split.
Today marked the thirty-sixth day of his imprisonment, the first day of his sixth week. The citadel, a dull, square-topped prison of stone and mortar, rose up five stories in the middle of a stony expanse of grasslands, six kales[1] from the outskirts of the city, Renta. Far enough from the town not to be ominous yet close enough for its top to be seen above the tree line and cut the light of the sun as it sets across the harbour. Looking out his small, square barred window, Kelendril watched the shadow of the citadel lengthen in the setting sun and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. He had to admit, the citadel was one of the best prisons he had occupied, and after a month he had become accustomed to the damp walls and spartan interior, the latter of which reminded him of his days at the academy.
The citadel definitely had its advantages, fresh air and a lack of rodents being the foremost. Decades ago, when Renta grew from a small port town to bustling city and a larger prison became necessary, rather than build an expansion to their current one it was decided to use the citadel, long abandoned and still in good repair. No one, not even the eldest members of the oldest lineages, could remember a time when the citadel had not stood in the stony field, surrounded by woods and farmland, its builder long forgotten. Unfortunately for those like Kelendril with ambitions to escape, the obstacles inherent to the citadel’s design greatly outweighed the few boons, for unlike an ordinary prison with one or two holding areas, each floor of the citadel had its own gate and guard station, making a quick escape impossible. If he wanted to break free, Kelendril would have to fight his way out, and every week of incarceration made his chance at success feel smaller and smaller.
It was quickly turning dark and Kelendril, growing tired, let up his struggle, his wrists and fingers red and chafed. He sunk down against a wall to rest his arms, his stomach grumbling as it had missed its lunch and was waiting for dinner. Bereft of his spell book from the moment he was taken prisoner, what few spells Kelendril had once known were now vague and unfamiliar, and despite memorizing the proper incantations again and again, the task was arduous and his mind could only focus for so long before his temples ached and he had to lie down, mentally exhausted.
Each day he pushed himself near comatose but the effort was not without reward. Under the duress his mind strengthened. He learned to focus longer, memorize faster, and through his discipline now had four spells engrained in his psyche that he was confident he could never forget. Kelendril grimaced and stood up from the cool stone floor which, now that the sun had set, was growing colder by the minute.
Kelendril cursed himself for being so weak and foolish. His paltry four spells would not be enough to escape the citadel, even if his hands were freed. If only he were stronger like his father - his father the councillor, his father the Shidofi. Feeling sorry for himself, Kelendril began to wriggle his hands again, ignoring the burning sensation across his skin and in his muscles. His frustration grew and not for the first time he lashed out at his cell’s thick wooden door with a great kick that nearly broke his toes. Wincing, he kicked it twice more and collapsed on his thin, straw bunk, lying there as the hours passed and the night deepened. A chill breeze came into his cell and Kelendril wrapped his cloak tighter around him. Deep in the south and kept temperate by the sea, this was the coldest the coastal region would ever get.

[1] Measure of distance, approximately the length of a football field