Gatehouse (The Gwenyre Caryra Chronicles Book 1)

by Bree Aguiar

  “None taken. Trust me,” Gwenyre promised.

  “I don’t know about that,” Cyran added, his voice betraying a smirk. “I’ve seen this one be pretty stubborn in the short time I’ve know her. She could make a donkey look like a house pup.” His joke lightened the mood considerably. “But you’re right. He shouldn’t be attending to someone like Gwenyre. She’s not exactly a hardened, dangerous criminal. Not by miles. It is… strange.” The way he looked for his last word showed that it was not exactly the sentiment he was looking for, but it fit well enough. The situation, specifically Sylvan’s interest in Gwenyre, was more than strange. Disconcerting really.

  “Speaking of,” Wyndemere piped up. “What exactly did you do, Gwen?” Ametrine looked at her callously, to which Wind defended herself. “What?! I know we’re technically not supposed to ask, and it might be rude, but maybe it’ll help us figure it out.”

  Ametrine actually agreed with her, urging the little elf to tell her story. “But only if you want to,” she added quickly. “Some want to forget what they did, to make their repayment, so I won’t blame you if you want to keep quiet.”

  Gwenyre shook her head, showing she had no reservations. She told the story from the beginning, though she had to force herself not to use the words “ignorant” and “misunderstanding.” Those explanations of her supposed crime had not helped her thus far; perhaps avoiding them would earn her the proper respect, and hopefully freedom, from the Masters at Gatehouse.

  As she told the story, she noticed Ametrine’s eyes widen considerably. Great, she thought to herself sarcastically. She probably thinks I’m such an idiot for not knowing about the perils of fire in Newbridge. But while Ametrine did understand a bit more about the reasoning behind the suspicion and illegality of fire (especially in the hands of an elf), that was not why she looked shocked.

  “You have magic?!” she exclaimed in a louder voice than intended. Looks from various creatures throughout the Mess Hall shot her way, leading her to slouch down. “Whoops,” she whispered in a much quieter voice as the others lost interest to return to their own conversations. “Didn’t mean to alert the town crier. But magic? Really?”

  Gwenyre was a little shocked. She assumed everybody knew that all elves for the most part had a little bit of magic. She explained this to Ametrine and Wyndemere. Aimee, however, was still impressed. “I knew that,” she countered. “But enough magic to make a full-blown fire? That’s more than just flipping a coin or reading a room. That’s… well, that’s real magic.” Gwenyre looked confused, but Cyran let out a chuckle.

  “She’s right,” he explained to Gwen when she gave him a questioning look. “Most elves can’t just conjure up an element like its nothing. And humans rarely see magic. The amount of witches has lessened considerably over the years, and they’re not as exposed to it as we are.”

  “Maybe Sylvan is afraid of her magic?” Wyndemere offered. Cyran shook his head at that.

  “Doubtful,” he explained in a voice that showed he was deep in thought. “In one of my trips here some time ago, there were two witch inmates – a brother and sister. They’d been arrested for starting a flood when they tried to magic away the drought affecting their crops. Sylvan never showed them any special interest, not like he has for our little Gwenyre. It must be something else…” He continued to think as Ametrine peppered Gwenyre with questions about her special abilities.

  “What else can you do? Is it just fire, or can you conjure water? Or wind? Or even earth? Can you make yourself invisible? Can you summon things? Do you think you could fix my appearance, straighten my nose or something? I’ve always hated it.” The girl hardly gave herself time to breathe between questions, never mind allowing Gwenyre to actually answer them. Eventually, Wyndemere lightly slapped Ametrine’s arm to get her to calm down.

  “Can’t you see that you’re acting a total fool? Relax! If Gwen wants to tell us more, she can. But she doesn’t have to.” She turned to address Gwenyre. “You really don’t have to. But we would be interested.” The two of them put their elbows on the table in front of them, placing their heads on their palms to show that they were all ears. Gwen had to chuckle before she could respond.

  “There’s not much to tell,” she explained quickly. “I don’t think I can make things disappear, and I don’t think I can fix your nose.” Aimee frowned slightly at that. “Not that you should, it’s a very nice nose!” Gwenyre added quickly, wiping the frown off the girl’s face. “I’m not sure of everything I can do. I just…try. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. Like the fire – I figured that out when I was little because I was too lazy to fix the logs in my room.” The girls nodded along enraptured, asking her what other powers she knew of. Gwenyre listed a few things, but there weren’t many. “I never had a teacher,” she explained. “My parents are really good as well so I must get it from them, but they said I shouldn’t be taught. Too many consequences, too many chances for things to go bad.”

  The other girls’ faces did not seem deterred or affected by the possibility of any consequences. They kept speaking about it for the rest of the dinner service, with Gwenyre telling them stories of the best (and worst) experiences she had with using her abilities. Cyran was still there but remained quiet, barely appearing to be listening. She was finishing up a tale about dousing a particularly annoying neighbor with water that appeared from thin air when they noticed the room was quickly emptying out. The group stood up and made their way out of the Mess Hall together, Cyran still silent.

  Before they entered the Dwelling and went their separate ways for the night, Cyran pulled them aside from the migrating crowd. “I want to find out why Sylvan had an interest in you today. I have a theory, but it’s not solid. I need to do some digging. But in the meantime, be careful. That goes for all of you. If he calls for you, you must tell me. Until then, avoid him as much as you can little one. He doesn’t normally roam around, so you should be alright, but be on alert.”

  Gwenyre nodded, though she still intended to keep quiet about any future meetings with Sylvan that ended like the one today. At least quiet from Cyran. She couldn’t risk him defending her in a way that would be dangerous for himself.

  “That’s settled then,” he said in a much lighter tone. “Well, it was great to meet you and perhaps we can all dine together again.” Ametrine smiled, verbally agreeing in her flirty voice. “Good luck at the Stables tomorrow,” he wished Gwenyre. “You’ll find Phillipe quite agreeable.” With that, the group entered the Dwelling, the girls going their separate ways from the old elf.

  “You didn’t tell me he was so dreamy,” Ametrine said in an airy voice as she danced into the crowded women’s quarters. The room was almost as loud as the Mess Hall, with different conversations being held by creatures in various stages of undress around them. Gwenyre and Wyndemere both rolled their eyes at that. “What?” Ametrine asked with mock shock in her voice. “He’s quite handsome!”

  “And old!” Gwenyre reminded her. “I know we age differently, but he’s probably like a hundred in human years.”

  “No – more like fifty,” Wyndemere countered. “But still not exactly appropriate for our little Aimee.”

  Ametrine laughed at that, grabbing them each by the hand. “What can I say? I fall so easily; age and status be damned. I just hope he likes me too!” The last line was said in jest, as she tried to display an air of nonchalance about the man’s own feelings towards her. It was clear, however, that she cared a little, but not enough to be heartbroken by it.

  The other girls shook her off, laughing as well. They bid their good nights as Gwenyre headed to her bed. On it, she found a welcome site: a night shift for sleeping, bandages, and a new working shift. There was a note as well, written in sharp, messy handwriting.

  In case you need it. Master Phillipe of the Stables expects cleanliness.

  – Miz Norethebo

  Gwenyre smiled at that. Though the note didn’t exude warmth, she could tell it came from a p
lace of caring. She hoped that would bode well for her future here, and her future outside if she could ever get it. With thoughts of freedom in her head, the girl lay down on her side and fell asleep quickly, only waking a few times from sharp pain when she accidentally rolled over onto her back.

  10 THE STABLES

  The next morning promised to be a picture-perfect day, at least weather-wise. Cycle Day was synonymous with change: the new sun rising, harvests growing, flowers budding, and birds singing. This all rang true on Gwenyre and Ametrine’s early morning walk to the Stables, their feet slightly wet from the fresh dew on the grass.

  When they arrived, the sweet stench of horsehair and dung rang thick in the air. The Stables themselves were huge – big enough to house the estate’s permanent animals as well as those of the many visitors. There appeared to be dozens and dozens of stalls, most all of them filled. Blacks, bays, chestnuts – each held within their own space. There were a few creatures already there attending to the animals, all of which seemed content in their own way. Gwenyre and Ametrine made their way over to a centaur in the far corner, who was speaking in a low voice to a liveried goblin.

  “It looks like we’ll be back soon,” Gwenyre overheard the goblin saying in a near-whisper. He looked oddly familiar as he strained on his tiptoes for his words to reach the ears of the tall centaur. “Mistress said she’s been feeling under the weather again but thinks her retreats here will help. I expect she’ll be wanting to return within the fortnight.”

  The centaur nodded, a look of contemplation on his face. “Yes,” he said in a deep, calming voice that sounded like warm honey to Gwenyre’s elven ears. “Very well, I’ll be sure to keep room for your animals and carriages. While it’s not good news to hear of her health, I’m glad to see her and her horses. You take fine care of them and they are well-behaved.”

  The little goblin smirked with pride at that statement, hiking up his breeches. “Thank you, Master. Glad to hear that, I am. The Mistress will be too. You know how much her horses mean to her.”

  The centaur smiled, noticing the girls from the corner of his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to the goblin, dismissing him with a polite wave. He made his way over to Gwenyre and Ametrine, hooves clapping on the wooden stable floor. “Ah, Ametrine. How pleasant to see you this morning. Miz Norethebo will be in and out for the day, helping our various visitors on their travels, but she promised that you would be most agreeable with any task assigned to you. I am hoping that she wasn’t exaggerating.” Gwenyre noticed a shine in his eyes as he subtly and gently tried to show Ametrine that there was no time for funny business in the Stables. At least not today. The human smiled wide, her own eyes shining back with a slight challenge. She curtsied, never taking her eyes off of his, and replied in her fake, posh accent. “Of course, Master Phillipe. I am delighted to be in your service today.”

  He laughed at that, a hearty one that came straight from his diaphragm. “Oh, Ametrine,” he said with his voice taking on a good-hearted scold. “What am I going to do with you? If you weren’t so charming, I’d hoof you straight back to the kitchens.”

  It was her turn to laugh now. “Master Phillipe,” she addressed the centaur, returning to her natural, low-born voice. “This is Gwenyre. She’s new here, and I’ve tasked myself with showing her the ways of this fine estate.”

  The centaur did not chuckle at the sarcasm, instead locking his eyes onto the little elf’s. He bowed low to her, showing respect. “Good morning, Gwenyre. Miz Norethebo mentioned you would be joining us as well. I am pleased to have an elf in my service, at least for the day. Tell me, do you have experience with horses?”

  Gwenyre smiled while extending her greeting. She explained her love of horses and her family’s own stables to the Master. Impressed with her knowledge of the animals, she was tasked with preparing the horses who were marked to leave with their owners later that day. “Check their shoes, brush their coats, make sure their bellies are full. Whatever they need for their long journeys.” Gwenyre nodded and set off for her assignment. Ametrine was given the much less glamorous job of cleaning the stalls as they emptied out, much to the girl’s dismay.

  “Shoveling poop more like,” she grumbled to Gwenyre as the elf was brushing a rather large and beautiful black stallion. “Why do I always get the crap jobs in here?”

  “Because you hate horses maybe?” Gwenyre tried to reason. Though she felt bad for her friend, she liked Master Phillipe and could easily find the logic in Ametrine’s assignment. “And they clearly hate you!” she remarked as she observed the stallion huffing whenever Ametrine came close. “They can smell your skittishness, you know.”

  Ametrine rolled her eyes at that, though she knew it was true. “If I never get assigned to the Stables again, I’ll be happy for it.” Gwenyre couldn’t think of anything she could disagree with more. Just a few minutes into her work and she already felt calm. She could barely feel the sting in her back as she reached up to clean the stallion’s taller spots. She loved it here.

  The first few hours went by quickly and contentedly for the little elf. Though Ametrine complained the whole time, there wasn’t actually much for her to do. Few of the visitors planned to leave before their own lunch service later that afternoon, so there were no empty stalls to clean. Instead, she sat on a hay bale across from Gwenyre, far away from whatever horse the elf was working on, picking her nails and chattering about absolutely nothing. During a tale about the time she “accidentally” trespassed into the home of a merchant with a man she’d just met (“he told me that it was his house and I believed it – what rotten luck I have”), they were interrupted by the Master telling them it was time for lunch. The two headed to the Mess Hall together, a permanent smile affixed to Gwenyre’s face to match Ametrine’s own scowl.

  During the lunch service, the girls caught up with Wyndemere who was utterly devastated at the continued prospect of being left to her own devices; Cyran was nowhere to be found. Wind spent the entirety of their time together begging them to bug off their assignments and help out at the House instead. The girls laughed, but denied her request. Gwenyre because she was so utterly happy, and Ametrine because she feared Norethebo’s wrath. “She likes me, but not that much,” Ametrine explained. Wind laughed, and soon the girls found themselves going their separate ways again.

  * * *

  Back at the Stables, the girls found themselves busy as more and more visitors began to depart from Gatehouse. Well, Gwenyre found herself busy. Ametrine found herself several dashing and high-born visitors to flirt with instead. The girl seemed to care little about who it was, as long as they were nearby and willing to listen. Gwenyre couldn’t help but smirk as she heard peeling laughter across the big room, wondering how Ametrine had the time or mental energy to keep up with it all. And how she didn’t get scolded. Master Phillipe and Norethebo, who joined the Stables after lunch to assist, appeared too busy to care. They were more than willing to let the girl have her fun.

  Shortly before her two o’clock, Gwenyre was saddling up a kind looking bay mare marked to leave that afternoon. The horse whickered when she was finished, urging her to tickle her neck. “You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?” Gwenyre said softly to the horse, obliging her with light scratches.

  “You’ve certainly got that right.”

  Gwenyre stepped back, confused and a little scared. She looked at the horse, who was irritated that her scratching had stopped. She heard laughter coming from the other side of the animal.

  “Please don’t tell me you thought the horse was talking to you,” she heard the voice say. She looked up and saw a young man walking towards her. A human, from his ears and tall height, he was clearly high-born and very handsome in his velvet caped jacket and pure white breeches. He had quite a nice smile, almost blinding, and she had to turn her eyes away from it. They landed on the man’s own eyes, which were rich and full of deep, swirling colors. Oh, how easily she could get lost in those eyes…

  She sh
ook those thoughts away quickly as she continued to attend to the horse. “Of course not,” she chastised the man, forgetting her place. “A beauty like this would not have such a gruff voice like yours anyway.” The man laughed again at her joke, the sound of his laughter warm and inviting. And a little arrogant.

  “Oh dear,” he said, as the chuckles subsided. “I expect a lot of things from a holiday visit to Gatehouse, but I never expect to be called out by one of the servants.”

  Blushing at her error, Gwenyre turned her head down to face his shoes and curtsied with haste. “My apologies, sir. I forgot my place. Please forgive me.”

  She felt the man looking at her, sizing her up, and then felt one of his fingers gently tugging to lift her downcast chin. “Please do not apologize on my behalf. I was only trying to return the humor.” She looked back at his face, into that blindingly smile and drowning eyes, and felt her already red cheeks aflame once again.

  He dropped his hand and began to pet the horse while still speaking to Gwenyre. “I’ve not seen you around here before.” He said it as a fact, not a question, but she answered anyway.

  “No, I’m new.” She didn’t elaborate much past that. She wasn’t sure how visitors were to interact with those of her station. Servants, he had called them. She assumed that conversations like the one with Lenora yesterday, and Ametrine’s incessant flirting today, were generally frowned upon. Her best bet, then, was to stay aloof, finish her task, and move away from this man as quick as possible.

  He didn’t appear as though he would allow that, however. He began to pepper her with questions, and she internally debated which would be worse: fraternizing with the guests or ignoring a clearly noble gentleman. She decided that the latter was probably more likely to get her into trouble, especially if he was pushing the conversation, and tried to answer him in as few words as possible.