Gatehouse (The Gwenyre Caryra Chronicles Book 1)
Page 6
6 MEETING THE HIGH MASTER
Gwenyre waited alone in the room for just a few minutes, but it felt like hours. There was a leak coming from the corner ceiling, dropping water onto the floor every few seconds like clockwork. Drip. Drip. Drip. The water plunked on the ground, and Gwenyre felt each drop burning into her brain while she waited.
Just before she felt she was about to lose her sanity, the door opened to let in one of the largest and foulest looking trolls she had ever seen. His long, blonde hair was streaked with grey and braided down past his waist. His skin was an off-putting grey, leathered and full of pockmarks, that contrasted with the yellow fang sticking out of his under-bite. Despite this, however, he was dressed regally in a thick, woolen suit that was dyed bright apple red and adorned with golden embroidery down the sides. This was paired with a thick, black leather belt that held a fine silver sword, several daggers, and what looked to be a baton.
Upon his entering, Gwenyre looked up in silence without moving a muscle until he spoke. “Rise, girl!” he commanded, his voice thick and hot, like oil splattering over a stove. “Don’t you know to respect your masters?”
She quickly stood up at his orders, fumbling over her new shift that was much too long for her short, elven body. She was miniscule compared to him and felt terrified at the implication of this size difference. He looked at her with contempt and, not knowing what else to do, she bowed. He growled at that. “Alright, sit back down.” Gwenyre lowered herself back into her chair slowly as the troll pulled the other chair to him, swinging it around to sit backwards. The sheer size of the creature ensured he couldn’t fit comfortably, his gargantuan bum sticking out far behind him and floating mid-air. He pulled out a rumpled scroll from his back pocket and read it quickly before looking back to the girl.
“You are Gwenyre Caryra.” It was as a statement rather than a question, but Gwenyre nodded her assent anyway. She noticed that he, like the leader of the City Council just the day before, pronounced it correctly. She thought it odd but didn’t have much time to dwell on the fact before he continued.
“I am Sylvan,” he explained in a bored voice. “You will refer to me as High Master, Master Sylvan, or High Warden. Nothing else. You will not disrespect me. You will do as I say, and you will obey the other lesser Masters and Mizzus. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” she said in a meek voice, recognizing the name. This was the leader of the guards at Gatehouse, the harsh troll Cyran had mentioned yesterday. She remembered how the old elf’s eyes flashed with fear and trepidation when mentioning the man, causing her own terror to intensify.
He looked directly at her, eyes hardening and losing their bored appearance. “Yes, what?” he spat, the hot oil of his voice crackling.
“Yes, High Master!” she exclaimed louder than she thought.
He laughed harshly at her pitiful acquiescence before continuing in his bored voice. “You are now a ward of Gatehouse, where you will be spending your repayment sentence.” He looked back down at his papers, raising his eyebrows before speaking again. “You have been sentenced by the City Council of Newbridge for a lifetime term. What did you do?” That last question was said with a quiet smirk, more to himself, but Gwenyre’s inner pride made her sit up to try and explain her unjust situation.
“Well, you see,” she began quickly. “I was just trying to light my way home. I didn’t understand the laws about fire and magic. Though, thinking about it, nobody said there was any law against the magic part, so I guess that bit was okay. The fire was not apparently, but again nobody told me and…” she rambled on, speaking fast to get it all out before he could interrupt.
The troll was not having it, however, and he snapped his large, sausage-like fingers in her face. “Silence!” His command made her yelp softly and she felt herself lowering down in her seat meekly. “I truly do not care, Miz Caryra.” He spat out her family name with such contempt that she could have sworn it meant something to him – something angry and bitter. “As I said, you are here for a lifetime. A lifetime of hard work and repayment. A lifetime of repentance.” His voice got louder and louder at each word, scaring her even more. “Do you feel sorry for your crimes? For what you did to deserve this?”
She opened her mouth quickly to respond but thought better and closed it tight just as fast.
That was apparently the exact wrong line of thinking. After an awkward silence, he began to fume even more. “WELL THEN, GIRLIE? ARE YOU TOO STUPID TO UNDERSTAND?”
Gwenyre hated being celled stupid. She was far from it, being born into a well-respected family known for their hard work and intelligence. She felt herself get red hot with anger, ready to give the troll a tongue lashing – until she remembered her current situation. Swallowing her fury, she answered with feigned calmness. “I do not deserve this. I do not feel sorry because, as I explained, it was a simple misunderstanding.”
She had hoped her honesty would be refreshing for a troll like this, whose expensive clothing was clearly trying to conceal the lie of his nastiness. But, of course, it angered him even more. “I should’ve known that a Caryra would be a scoundrel. A fiend. A prideful, disgusting, sieving little elf.” The last word was filled with scorn, turning her kind into a slur.
Gwenyre sat quietly, refusing to look the troll in the eyes. Her arms crossed and slouched back, she waited in the tense silence, unsure of what would come next. She knew anything else she said would just worsen the situation. She waited for Sylvan to take a few breaths, huffing and puffing, before he was able to contain his rage.
“As I was saying,” he started again in his thick voice, no longer bored as it struggled to contain his wrath. “You will remain at Gatehouse for a lifetime term of repayment. As a new inmate, you will be assigned as a Rogue until a more permanent position suitable for your skills and talents is suggested by one of the various Masters or Mizzus here. Miz Norethebo will watch over you as a Rogue and you will report to her. However, due to her…” he appeared to search for the right word. “Shortcomings, shall we say, she will not be in charge of your daily Thrashing. These are required for all new inmates for a fortnight. She may look strong,” he explained quickly, his tone softening with a sort of kindness for the half-troll. “But her goblin-stature does not allow her to really illuminate the lessons a Thrashing is supposed to impart.” His voice turned back, losing its gentleness as he continued to explain the expectations of her time at Gatehouse.
She would be remaining in the Dwelling as a Rogue. Lunch was served at eleven o’clock and dinner at nine. Inmates could eat together in the Mess Hall, deep in the forest just past the Dwelling. If duties kept her from dinner, she would be allowed to bring a plate to her bed. Aside from that, there was no eating other than during prescribed mealtimes in the Hall. Norethebo would continue to be her Mizzus until she was given a more permanent assignment, and she would begin her work under House Service today.
“Your Thrashings,” Sylvan explained with a brutish smile forming on his face, “will take place in this room at two o’clock daily. You will report here, no matter what you are doing, and Master Gurney will handle it. You will receive twenty-five lashes each day, though more may be assigned if you are not performing up-to-par. Miz Norethebo will be keeping Gurney abreast of your situation, so I suggest you stay on her good side. And for every minute that you are late, another ten lashes will be added.” Gwenyre tried to hide her grimace. She had never been hit as a child and was unsure what to expect other than pain. But she would find out – sooner rather than later apparently.
“I will be performing your first Thrashing now, as part of your initial learning journey here at Gatehouse. And, due to your earlier insolence, I think you require additional teaching. Fifty lashes should do, no?” He phrased it as a question, though it was clearly rhetorical. He did not wait for an answer as he pulled the baton, which was actually a whip, out of his belt while pulling her from her seat. “Turn around,” he commanded. “And don’t even think about crying.”
* * *
After what felt like an hour of waiting, Gwenyre began to panic. What if they’ve forgotten me here? she asked herself. She could not sit down to wait patiently, the lashes in her back bringing pain with every twist, turn, and lean. She decided to stick her head out of the door, praying that Sylvan would not be waiting there hoping for her to screw up so he would have an excuse to give her extra lashes.
When she opened the door slowly, however, she was greeted by a more forgiving sight: Ametrine hurrying down the hall. She was clearly on her way to some other task, but Gwenyre whisper-called her name in a panicked effort to get her attention. “Ametrine!” she cried out softly to not draw any unwanted attention.
The girl turned, looking around in confusion until she saw Gwenyre’s head sticking out of the doorway. “Gwen!” she called out in a much louder voice than Gwenyre expected. “What’re you doing in there?” she asked, her low-born drawl in full effect.
“I was told to wait for Miz Norethebo,” she explained. Ametrine nodded, looking at the elf with concern.
“Who did the intake?” she asked.
“High Master Sylvan,” Gwenyre said, her voice cracking. Just thinking of the deplorable troll was enough to bring on a searing pain from his blows. She felt her cheeks redden with a mix of anger and humiliation.
“Sylvan?!” Ametrine exclaimed. Gwenyre grimaced at how loudly she said his name with no honorific. If he heard, they’d both be back in that room for another lashing. “He only comes out for the big boys, the ones they usually can’t handle. Wants to meet them personally, you know? Show how he’ll destroy their souls and will to live. Not for someone like you… What did you do to end up here?”
Gwenyre didn’t have time to explain, knowing that her account would probably just baffle Ametrine as much as it had herself. Instead, she asked the girl where she could find the Miz.
“Oh, she’ll be by shortly I think.” Ametrine moved on from her earlier question without a fight; she was clearly a space-shot who was easily distracted. “She was yelling at Jazmyn, the serving girl, for messing up the plates. Apparently, there’s a very well-connected trollette embracing our fine manor for the weekend, and the porcelain plates we normally use are not good enough. Her words, not mine. Obviously.”
Gwenyre was glad for Ametrine’s rambling, welcoming the distraction from her impatience and pain. She couldn’t, however, stop her face from involuntarily frowning in discomfort whenever she accidentally tensed up her back. Ametrine could clearly read her agony and walked towards Gwenyre to whisper close in her ear.
“It gets better,” she promised. “After a fortnight, you barely even get Thrashings unless you’ve done something really bad. Or if you catch one of the Masters in a bad mood. But even then, it’s over quick. They’re never really that bad and you learn to ignore the pain.”
Gwenyre nodded, her eyes welling up. Ametrine continued on trying to comfort her. “Wyndemere’ll have an ointment for your bruises. It hurts like a hellhound going on, but helps it heal faster.” Gwenyre had no idea who this Wyndemere was, but she was grateful to be shown a small kindness.
“Thank you, Ametrine,” she said sincerely, gripping the girl’s hand.
Ametrine lost the concern on her face and laughed. “If I’m calling you Gwen, you can call me Aimee. Ametrine sounds too hoity-toity coming out of a high-born mouth like yours.” She said it in jest, her eyes twinkling with laughter, making Gwenyre chuckle herself. Though only briefly, as the movement from her laughter brought more pain.
“Alright then. Thank you, Aimee.”
Ametrine smiled and backed away. “I have to be off; I need to change sheets before I get a tongue lashing from the Miz. She’ll be here soon enough, just hold tight.” Smiling, Aimee went back down the hall, leaving Gwenyre once again waiting.
Thankfully, the wait was much shorter this time. Miz Norethebo returned, looking even more disheveled than before (if that was possible). “There you are,” she called out when she opened the door. “Well, let’s go girlie! Got to finish the tour before lunch.”
Norethebo showed her around, grumbling to herself almost the entire time. After her encounter with Sylvan, and seeing how Norethebo was with Ametrine, Gwenyre was much less afraid of the half-troll. She knew getting the woman on her side might be important, so Gwenyre plastered a smile on her face for the remainder of her tour.
They went over everything within the House that Gwenyre would need to know when she was stationed there: pantries, linen closets, silos, and storages galore. “You won’t be needing to see the guest rooms,” Norethebo explained. “Only the trusted ones are allowed up there, changing the sheets, putting away the laundry, even babysitting the younglings. Not you, not yet. But maybe someday.” Norethebo said the last bit like it was an achievement. It appeared that the better the slave you were, the better off you were here at Gatehouse.
Just before eleven, Norethebo hustled the girl over to the Mess Hall. “Lunchtime,” she explained. “I’ll be eating in the kitchens, with the other lesser Masters and Mizzus. See to find your way back to the House.” The troll quickly left, leaving Gwenyre standing alone in the large, crowded room.
The Mess Hall was constructed of a dark wood, similar to the Dwelling, and was teeming with various inmates. She expected it to be a tense place, with so many prisoners gathered together, but it was actually full of merry talking and laughter. Unsure of where to go, Gwenyre followed others wearing her same garb to a line where she received a plate full of some questionable stew. (At least it has potatoes, she thought to herself.) She looked around for a place to sit, hopefully with Aimee, but she could not see the girl’s dark locks anywhere. She did, however, see one familiar face sitting at a table towards the far corner.
Cyran was wearing the prisoner’s uniform of the men: grey pants and a blouse to match. His hair was tied back, making him look much more presentable than she’d ever seen. She walked over to his table, asking if she could join.
“Of course,” he said, pointing at a chair in front of him. “Everyone, this is Gwenyre. Gwenyre, these are some of my friends.” He pointed them out by name, and she smiled at each, knowing she’d never remember them all. As she began to eat, she asked him what he had done this morning.
“I didn’t see you getting an intake tour,” she explained.
He chuckled at that. “I’ve been here so many times, little one, that I could give the tour myself. No, I’ve been assigned to the Smithy. Master Lumen there just loves me, doesn’t he boys?” The other creatures at the table laughed at his clear jest.
“So, who did it?” he asked, referring to her intake interview. When she told him it was Sylvan, the old elf appeared less shocked than Aimee but much more disgusted. “A bastard like that, for a little one like you? He better not be your regular Thrasher.” He sighed with relief when she told him she’d been assigned to Gurney. “He’s not bad,” Cyran explained blankly. “He’s got a quick hand and weak wrists. Your fortnight will be over quicker than you know with him.”
Gwenyre knew she should be at least a little relieved, but how could she? What relief could there be for getting continuousl
y beaten, even if it was not as bad as the one she had already received? She once again found herself filled with shock and anger at this place and the apparent acceptance everyone had for it. Why did nobody bother to question the morality of it all?
“Elven morality,” Cyran replied in a whisper as a way of explanation after she expressed her feelings. “Elves are different. To the trolls in charge, there is no question of morality. To them, you should be asking for this punishment, for this repayment. And many other races agree. Don’t forget, you aren’t with the elves anymore Gwenyre. You can’t think like one when you’re here.”
Gwenyre accepted his explanation glumly, eating her surprisingly delicious stew. As she was finishing up, listening to a rather racy story being told by one of Cyran’s centaur friends, she heard a bell toll.
“That’ll be the end of lunch,” he explained. “Can you find your own way back to your assignment?” She nodded with her thanks. “Of course, little one,” he responded as if it were nothing. “I’ll see you later.” Alone once again, she made her way back to the House.
7 SETTING THE TABLE
When Gwenyre returned to the kitchen, she found Miz Norethebo waiting for her, balancing a bucket of soapy water and a mop in her thick, leathery hands. “Here you are, girlie,” she said as a way of greeting, extending the objects for Gwenyre to take. “You’ll be mopping up the dining room before the visitors sit to have their luncheon. You better do it quick; they’ll begin serving the food at half past, and there’s always one that shows up earlier. As if the quicker they get there, the faster they’ll get served. Bah!” That last bit was mumbled under her breath, but Gwenyre’s elven ears easily made out the contempt and jealousy mixed together in Norethebo’s voice. She was superior here, at least when compared to the inmates, but would never rise to the likes of the high-class visitors who were welcomed in the fine halls and rooms of the estate.