Gatehouse (The Gwenyre Caryra Chronicles Book 1)

by Bree Aguiar

  To avoid the awkwardness caused by her raucous reaction, Ametrine quickly changed the subject. “Gwenyre has something to tell you. Don’t you, Gwen?” She nudged the other girl, egging her on. Gwen was mildly surprised Aimee didn’t just tell it herself, but she soon found herself telling the story of her strange meeting with Gurney for the third time today. As promised, she left out any mention of Sylvan and gave the girls a brief sharp look to remind them to do the same.

  As she spoke, Cyran took on a mild look of contemplation. Gwenyre specifically did not use the word “magic” and didn’t tell him of Ametrine’s ridiculous theory. She told Cyran how her cuts had healed quickly but didn’t mention how or why that had been discovered. When Ametrine looked as if she was going to say something about it, Gwenyre grabbed her arm softly under the table to shush her; she wanted to see if Cyran had another explanation of his own, being an experienced elf and inmate, and didn’t want their ideas to nudge his own. Ametrine and Wyndemere thankfully seemed to pick up on her wish, keeping quiet as they waited for his response.

  When she finished, the three girls held bated breaths. Gwenyre looked at Ametrine, whose face looked pained with the prospect of being patient. He did not, however, give an immediate explanation like they were hoping. He didn’t even ask any questions. He just sat there in his contemplation before giving a quick “hmm.”

  Unable to hold it in anymore, Ametrine piped up. “Hmm what?! Do you know what happened?” Gwenyre looked at her, silently begging her to wait for his response before she began spewing her theories. She understood, giving a slight nod, and turned back to Cyran.

  “It is… interesting,” he said after a few agonizing seconds of him thinking. Though Gwenyre prided herself on being mostly patient, even she couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Interesting?” she exclaimed, surprising both herself and the other girls. “Is that it? It’s just interesting?”

  “Of course it is,” Cyran responded in a composed voice, as if to bring a calmness back to the conversation. “I wasn’t there obviously, so I can’t give a full explanation of what occurred. But to me, it sounds like you were perhaps unconsciously…” He thought for a minute, his lips pursed as he tried to find the right words. “Unconsciously protecting yourself.”

  “Like with magic?!” Ametrine cried out excitedly. Gwenyre groaned, though she wasn’t sure if it was meant for the girl or the old elf who had given truth to her growing fears. Cyran was nonplussed by her distress at the possibility and continued explaining his theory in that calm, stoic way of his.

  “Sort of like magic,” he explained slowly. “I guess you could call it that. Most would say you need to use power consciously for it to be true magic, power from within, but that’s all hogwash in my opinion.”

  Gwenyre and Wyndemere voiced their doubts, but Cyran brushed them off. “If Gurney’s whip just broke, he could have gotten another one from the closet just outside the hallway. And I doubt anything else would make him stop in his tracks like the way to described. No, it must’ve been some sort of magic. You’re more powerful than I thought.”

  Gwenyre blanched at that prospect, her worst fears coming true. Noticing her thoughts, or perhaps just feeling them himself, he gave her a comforting smile. “It’s not a bad thing and you’re not alone. There are many creatures, elves and witches and even centaurs with a great deal of magic. It is rare, but not unheard of. Don’t be afraid.”

  She breathed easy when she heard that, though she couldn’t fully shake the fearful knot that had formed in her belly. If he was right, and she had the feeling Cyran was not often wrong, then she might be… powerful. More powerful than she knew. And she had no idea how to control it. She wondered what the extent of her power was, hoping it was not much more than the brief burst she had shown this afternoon. How could she know though? And would she ever learn to control it?

  Once again as if reading her thoughts, Cyran answered her internal question. “There is someone who may be able to teach you. They’re not here at Gatehouse, but I may be able to get word to them…” His face turned to a look of concentration. “Yes,” he finally confirmed out loud, though Gwenyre wasn’t sure exactly what he was confirming. “Yes, I think that will work. Give me some time. But in the meantime, tell no-one else. Especially not a Master. Not even Phillipe or Norethebo. We don’t need Sylvan or any of the other Wardens questioning your power or trying to still it in some way.” At the mention of Sylvan, Gwenyre felt her face turning red in shame. She hated keeping the secret of his “special interest” from the old elf, but she also knew it was the best decision. Especially when she saw how harsh Cyran’s eyes turned when he mentioned the troll’s name. “So, tell no-one, and do whatever you can to control it.”

  She piped up in protest – to ask how she could control something she knew nothing about – when Cyran cut in again. “I know,” he said before she could get the words out. “But you must try. At your next Thrashing, think of something besides the pain. Sing a song, do your times tables, anything to get your mind off of protecting yourself.”

  She nodded sullenly, knowing it was probably futile. Distracting yourself from an expected pain was not a skill she’d ever needed to learn, and she wasn’t certain it could be done. But she would try – for herself and for Cyran.

  He reminded them once again to tell no-one and mentioned that it was probably best to just stay silent about the topic even amongst themselves for now. The girls agreed, though Gwenyre could tell it pained Ametrine. The girl loved to talk and appeared to be fascinated with magic, so this was probably akin to torture. But she made the same promise as the others, and Gwenyre didn’t think she would soon break it.

  It turned out the ban on speaking of it started then, as Cyran quickly changed the subject. He asked the girls about their favorite past-times, their families, the things they missed the most. He nodded at each of their stories, smiling and groaning and looking shocked when necessary. They each felt a comfort around the old elf and opened up to him easily. He did not do the same. For each story they told him, one of them asked him a question that went unanswered. He said they would get bored of most of his life stories, saying they were “unequivocally the actions of a silly youngling making stupid mistakes” before asking them to tell more about their own experiences. Gwenyre wasn’t sure if he was just a better listener or if he was hiding something, but she figured he had reasons for keeping private. When the dinner service wrapped up, he told the girls he might not always be around but to look for him when they could. In the meantime, he would work on keeping his promise to find a teacher. “It may take some time,” he explained. “But I will find help for Gwenyre.” With that, he departed, leaving the girls at their table alone.

  “Who do you think it is?” Ametrine asked the second he was out of ear shot.

  “Aimee,” Wyndemere scolded. “He told us not to talk about it! You promised.”

  Blushing slightly, Ametrine apologized for forgetting and reiterated her promise. “No mention of it,” she said. “I swear.” They all got up and left together, heading towards the Dwelling to get ready for bed.

  13 PLANNED & UNPLANNED MEETINGS

  The next few weeks at Gatehouse went by in a lull for Gwenyre. She quickly became used to the routines of the estate, learning various skills in the different services she tried out. It turned out that Ametrine, though a Rogue, usually worked in the House with Miz Norethebo. Due to Gwenyre’s joining, however, Norethebo insisted she try all of the possible assignments in order to find the right match. “I’ll not have another Ametrine,” she explained with her usual gruff attitude. “Going around, with not one Master or Mizzus willing to take her on full time with all the trouble she causes!” Ametrine scoffed when that remark was made, smarmily reminding the half-troll that the true reason was because Norethebo loved her so much. This earned a quick smack and an eye roll, but no other comment or denial from the Miz.

  Gwenyre quickly learned which of the assignments she came to like and which s
he wished to avoid like the plague. The House was one of the easiest and had some of the best company. Her days there were full, but usually with simpler tasks once her muscles grew used to physical labor. She was able to spend a majority of her time chatting in the halls with Wind, Aimee, and a few others she came to call friends – but only when Norethebo or the House Miz Kalina were not around of course.

  They were sent to the Fields a few times, which always led to Ametrine coming back sunburnt and grumpy. The work there was tough, but it was nice to be able to be outside for the day. The Lumber Yard was fine, but the girls mostly just helped transport wood from one station to another. They weren’t strong enough to use the tools and were generally considered to be a nuisance by the permanent workers there. The Smithy was the same, and even being able to spend the day with Cyran wasn’t worth it when they returned to the Dwelling that night with their heads aching and ears ringing from the constant clang of hammers. They even got to try out the Protectorate one day, which excited Ametrine much more than Gwenyre expected. (“I love watching the strong warriors swing their swords and axes,” the girl explained in hushed, sultry tones that made Gwenyre want to roll her eyes until they were stuck at the back of her head. “It makes me wild. Wait until you meet Theranas. She’s quite the beauty and with more muscles than even Cyran. Absolutely luscious!”) But that day turned out to be a total bust. The Master of Arms gave Gwenyre a very heavy practice sword, which she broke with one poorly aimed swing, and the girls were asked not to return the following day. Or ever.

  The only place they didn’t try out was the Caves, which Gwenyre was thankful for. Though she knew none of the Cavers personally, seeing as how they did not live in the Dwelling, she had seen some of them during dinner service in the Mess Hall. All were large creatures, covered in soot and looking grim. When they did speak, it was usually only to each other in brusque tones and accompanied by raucous laughter. She didn’t think the Caves were a good match and was glad when Norethebo suggested they not bother testing it out.

  Her favorite assignment, of course, remained the Stables. Ametrine always complained (though that was typical no matter what the day), but Gwenyre found a comfort there that rivalled that of being home. She became close to many of the animals and was constantly receiving praise from Master Phillipe. Ametrine sulked when this happened, but not out of jealousy. “What if you get placed there permanently?” she whined one day after Phillipe exclaimed her re-shoeing technique was some of the best he’d seen in his long years of service at the estate. “What’ll I do?”

  Gwenyre tried to comfort the girl, reminding her that Wind was left alone whenever they weren’t on House Service. “But we’re all still friends,” she explained. “We’ll see each other every day, and actually have stories to tell. There’s only so much I can tell you when we’re always together.”

  Ametrine sullenly agreed with the girl. “Plus,” she added to cheer herself up, “once you’re assigned, I won’t have to test the services I hate anymore. Back to hiding from Norethebo in the House for me. God, those are always the best.” Gwenyre laughed at her friend’s absolute positivity. That was one thing she admired about the human – everything was exciting to her. Though the elf didn’t mention it so as not to upset her friend, Gwenyre felt a bit sad about the day she’d be assigned. She knew she’d be placed in the Stables and would miss her constant companion.

  Other than the changing assignments, most days were the same for Gwenyre. All three girls kept their promise to Cyran, and no mention of the magic or her mystery teacher was brought up. Even when they were able to have dinner with Cyran, which seemed to happen less and less, the topic was not addressed. He said nothing of any progress made in contacting whoever this teacher was and didn’t ask if any mishaps with her magic had arisen. With the taboo, it almost became easy to forget about her possible powers at all.

  Almost. It wasn’t easy to forget during her Thrashings with Gurney. Gwenyre had followed Cyran’s advice and tried to distract herself during these meetings, which only worked about half the time. When it didn’t, Gurney’s frustrations would grow, his usual blank face becoming twisted as he tried to figure out what was going on. But he never asked her about it and never indicated that he shared the situation with Sylvan or any of the other wardens. He would just dismiss her until finally, after two weeks, he told her never to return.

  “Your time with me is up,” he explained. “You’ve appeared to learn your lesson, at least some days…” he said trailing off, a slight look of confusion betraying his normally blank face. “But no matter, I will no longer require your presence here. Good luck.” That was the last she saw of him. She didn’t question his silence and was just glad that those particular meetings were finished for good.

  * * *

  Her meetings with Sylvan, however, were just beginning. They were to take place on a weekly basis, as suggested, and were thankfully far from what she’d expected. On that first Friday, she arrived at the little hallway promptly at ten o’clock after a lot of hugging and words of encouragement from her new friends. Shaking off her nerves, she waited outside of the little room for a few minutes, expecting Sylvan to invite her in shortly. However, he arrived from a different door at quarter past ten, beckoning her to follow him to a part of the House she’d never seen.

  They went through different hallways and stairwells, arriving in a dungeon-like area that felt very high up. They stood outside of a large, dark wooden door with a black iron handle and matching hinges. She panicked, thinking she was about to be strung up in chains by her wrists and tried not to cry as he fumbled with a key. She noticed a small window and peered out of it to distract herself, realizing they were at the top of one of the tall brick towers she’d noticed on her first night at the estate. Finally, Sylvan managed to turn the key within the lock and slowly opened the door with a loud creak. She held her breath as he pushed her into the room, awaiting bare stones and iron chains.

  What she saw was thankfully far from that. Instead, she entered a rather warm room lit by a crackling fire. The orange flames cast a nice glow on a space that was larger than she expected and furnished like a well-loved and lived-in office. The room was mostly occupied by a very messy dark wooden desk covered in parchments and papers and various other knick-knacks, along with three matching chairs – one cushioned behind the desk for its resident and the others, un-cushioned, for visitors. Aside from that, the room had various other mismatched side tables, an armchair positioned in front of the fireplace, and bookshelves overflowing with books and other trinkets that appeared to have no purpose. There was also a tiny cage in the far corner, barely big enough to fit a full-grown pup. It was thankfully empty, but Gwenyre found herself purposefully avoiding gazing at the cage and wondering what could be possibly be held within it.

  The room must have been Sylvan’s office, but it seemed impossible that a man so cold and cruel would have this warm and beautiful place to call his own.

  Any doubts she had about the room’s ownership were expelled when Sylvan closed the door and pushed past her to sit in the cushioned chair behind the desk. Putting his feet up (which were bare, wrinkled, and rather smelly), he gestured to one of the chairs in front of him. “Sit,” he commanded her in a quiet voice. He didn’t appear angry or pushy, but rather content sitting comfortably in his space. Again, this was not something Gwenyre expected and she was shocked as she made her way to one of the remaining wooden chairs.

  “Tea?” he asked gruffly, reaching for a tray covered with a steaming pot and saucers to his left that she hadn’t noticed before. The dishes looked like they were carved from stone, which suited a troll’s less than delicate fingers more than a normal tea set would. They were, however, the normal size and looked infantile in his large, rough hands. Before she could respond, he thrust a cup at her. The tea looked less than appetizing and smelled more like still water than herbs, but she took small sips to be polite. And also, because he was staring at her in silence, as if beckoning her
to drink before they could begin – that was not a look she wanted to disobey.

  “Good,” he commented after she had taken a few sips in silence. The taste was horrible and exactly what she’d expected – like dirty warm water. He did not offer her the milk or honey saucers, so she grimaced through the nasty taste. He didn’t pick up his own cup, which sat steaming next to him. Probably because he knew it tasted bad. But this was a form of torture she could take, and she said nothing as she awaited his further commentary.

  “Good,” he repeated, watching her before continuing. “I’ve called you here, as I explained, due to a special interest I’ve garnered in you.” The words were emphasized as they had been just a few days before in that little hallway, the meaning of their vocal stress unclear and anxiety-inducing for the little elf. “Tell me about your first few days here at Gatehouse.”

  Still unsure of his purpose and what the troll hoped to gain, Gwenyre sat back and thought – taking more sips of tea to make her silence purposeful. She was beginning to feel strange and quite nauseated from it but refused to put the cup down for fear of Sylvan’s displeasure. Trying to hold in the wave of sickness overcoming her, she started speaking fast. “It’s been quite well, actually. I’ve found some things I enjoy, and the people have been rather nice.” Unlike you, she thought to herself. Only to herself, because she knew voicing that opinion was paramount to a death sentence in his presence. She found herself continuing, telling him of her days in various services. How she loved working in the Stables, and Master Phillipe’s fondness for her work. How Norethebo was a fine Mizzus, who gave her fair tasks and encouragement or berating when needed. How she hated the Smithy, where she could barely pick up the tools without falling over. She wasn’t sure why she was loosening her tongue so much, but for some reason she couldn’t stop herself. It was either speak or throw up, and she knew she’d much rather do the former.