Gatehouse (The Gwenyre Caryra Chronicles Book 1)

by Bree Aguiar

  She waited for what felt like forever, mostly because she’d arrived earlier than anticipated and she could do nothing but dwell on the pain and anger rising inside of her. She thought about it all: Sylvan’s unwarranted hatred and cruelty, her unjust imprisonment here, her homesickness. The longer she waited, the angrier she became until she was practically seething when she heard a rustle in the trees. Stopping her thoughts quickly, she forced herself to stand up, clutching her arm to limit the movement and thereby the pain. She watched the spot in the trees where the branches were moving, and saw a cloaked figure emerge into the Clearing before her.

  The witch had hidden their face, but it was clear from their height and build that they were someone tall and strong. They stayed far away, looking intently at Gwenyre with eyes she couldn’t see under their cloaked face. “You wish to be taught magic, elf?” a voice coming from the figure asked. The obviously male voice was gruff and sounded deeper than she expected. Yet it was vaguely familiar.

  She nodded to confirm, still holding her arm. She tried to see more of the figure as it began to walk closer to her, but she could make out no details other than the fact that his cloak was clearly expensive and finely woven.

  “Why?” he asked brusquely, stopping just a few feet from her.

  She was unsure how to answer. Before, when Cyran first suggested this, she had just wanted to learn to control a power she wasn’t even sure she had. To make sure she would never do something unconsciously again, especially if it could harm someone. Now, it was different. She wanted to get back at Sylvan, to maybe break free of this place, to make her life better. But she knew that was probably not the right answer. She knew nothing about the witch, but he might not care for a student who wanted to use their magic to harm others, even someone as horrid as Sylvan.

  She decided that lying was her best bet. She told him the first answer, about control. In her head, it wasn’t even technically a lie as it had been the truth once. Just hours ago, really.

  But despite what Gwenyre told herself, he seemed to know that this wasn’t the full truth. He sneered at her, hissing loudly. “I don’t appreciate falsities. Tell the truth, or I will turn around and never help you again.”

  Sighing and wincing with pain, she decided to open up. Either this witch would help her, or he wouldn’t. If she tried to pretend like her lie was the truth, there was no chance of his help. She took a chance and began her story. “Well, it was about control at first. But now it is about…” she searched for the right word. “Not power,” she explained. “But in a way, that’s what it is. Power over someone who has beaten and berated me, who has made it their mission in life to cause me to suffer for no reason I can see. I can’t bear it, not anymore. But I won’t take it lying down. I wish to fight back. I’m not sure how or when, but I think I need magic to help. But I swear to you, my fight is just. I would never hurt those that don’t deserve it.”

  The witch, whose face was still hidden, cocked his head to the side to consider this. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “I will teach you,” he agreed. “But you must know who I am. Before I take off this cloak, you must promise to keep my identity a secret. Few know of my family’s powers, and I do not wish for that knowledge to spread.”

  She agreed, and the witch slowly lowered his hood and faced her. Standing before her was Lord Sampson, looking as handsome and powerful as ever. She let out an involuntary gasp of shock when she realized and lowered her head to hide her embarrassment. He said nothing, continuing to look at her with his deep eyes. She decided to break the silence when she realized he was waiting on her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked in a meek voice.

  He looked at her amused, a half smirk forming on his lips. “No offense, but why would I have told you? I like you, but I barely know you.”

  She realized he was right, but still couldn’t hide her confusion. He noticed this and gave her a brief explanation. “My family has held magic for generations. My brother is technically a stronger witch than I, but he’s been a recluse ever since he saved my life. Your friend asked for him, but he refused. Once I heard who he was seeking help for, I knew I had to volunteer. There was a reason I was drawn to you, and I think this was it.”

  She felt a slight lurch in her stomach when he said this, butterflies fluttering around. She pushed it down, focusing instead on the pain in her arm. He noticed her wince and asked what was wrong.

  Before she even had a chance to explain, he approached her. He reached his arm out, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. She felt a tingle as his skin touched hers, and then pain as he put pressure onto her skin, feeling around. “Your shoulder is dislocated,” he said in a concerned voice. “I can fix the pain, but I have to push the bone back first.” He looked her in the eye as he added one more word. “Manually.” She knew that would be painful, but she had no choice. She bit her lip, holding back tears as she nodded her head, urging him to get it over with.

  Sighing with regret at what he had to do, he grabbed onto her shoulder more firmly. “This will hurt, but only for a second. On three.” She waited, bracing herself as he counted. “One…two…” Before he could get to three, she felt the sharp, rushing pain as he pulled and pushed her arm back into place. She cried out, seeing spots again and trying her hardest not to faint. He quickly lifted his palm from her shoulder, hovering it over the spot where the pain hurt the most. She watched his face as he concentrated and felt the pain dissipating quickly.

  When it was gone, she moved her arm and shoulder around slowly, testing them. There was no pain, no loss of mobility. His ability was strong, and she was eternally grateful. Though also a touch scared. She’d never known anyone with such powerful magic, had never had anyone heal her before, and wasn’t sure how she felt about it. “Thank you,” she said eventually, realizing she should just be grateful for his help. “Will I be able to do that one day?”

  He thought about it for a bit. “Perhaps. I don’t know the extent of your ability, but I am determined to find out. You also need to understand that our magic will be different, so teaching you may be hard. But I’ll try.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Do you know anything about elven magic?” he returned. She shook her head in the negative and he smirked back, as if excited to explain. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the grass. She obeyed as he joined, the girl listening patiently as he began his lesson.

  “Elven magic is different from human magic,” he started. “Human magic, the magic of witches, is external. Witches have some natural ability, but we spend years having to learn about theories to make it all work. We manipulate the flows around us and have to learn to consciously use them in tandem to create an effect. It can be very powerful, but it also takes a concerted effort. Eleven magic is much more subconscious; it is internal. Elves do not manipulate the world around them – they must manipulate themselves to get magic to work. It’s why it comes more naturally to elves, even those with very little ability, because it comes from within.”

  Though she appreciated his explanation, it was still unclear to her. “It’s like this,” he continued, giving examples to make it easier. “If a witch needs a glass of water, they have to summon it from an existing external source. A lake or a river. If an elf needs water, they can create it from within and it will flow from their own source. Certain things, then, are easier for elves.

  “But some things are harder. If a witch needs to move a stick…” He pointed his palm into the forest, and a stick came flying over, landing gently between them on the grass. “They can move the stick itself using the external flows inside of it and surrounding it. An elf, however, cannot do that. They must create air coming from within them to pull it towards them, to summon it. It’s possible, but it’s also much more difficult. It’s important to understand this difference. You won’t be able to use my brand of magic, but I can try to teach you to pull that source from within.”

  She nodded, understanding now. With that, he instructed her to
try and move the stick. “Remember, you must create flows from within. If you want it to come to you, think of yourself as a fan. Using wind from inside of you to pull it towards you.”

  She nodded again as she began to concentrate. It wasn’t easy, thinking of herself as a source of power. She pushed herself to feel it within, to search for that source hidden beneath her disbelief of her own abilities. The things she’d done in the past, like her small fires, were simple; she hadn’t needed to think about making that magic work – it just did. But now with this man (this handsome man) in front of her, asking her to harness this ability in a new way, she encountered much more difficulty. She knew it was her own fault, her own denial of what she was and what she could do, that made it impossible. She also knew that she was the only one who could push past this block and force her powers to be free.

  “Look for a light,” Sampson suggested gently after her futile attempts forced a grimace upon her face. “Find the light within yourself. It’s hiding, but it’s there. You just have to believe it is.”

  She closed her eyes and did as he instructed, picturing the shadows and darkness surrounding her subconscious. She saw images of all the negative things, the dark things, of the last few months: her arrest, her Thrashings, her experiences with Sylvan. Pushing past those, she searched for the light, for the good. Ametrine. Wind. Cyran. And even her few encounters with the man before her, where she felt a strange connection with him that she couldn’t deny. She let the light from these memories fill her, and she harnessed it to pull the small branch towards her using the power from within.

  It was a slight movement and extremely clumsy, but Sampson smiled at her achievement. “Good,” he said. “But try again. You need to master control over it, learn to make it a conscious effort.” With additional encouragement from Sampson, she kept trying. Each time, the movement became more natural. She was able to push and pull the stick farther, straighter, and with less effort each time. After a half hour of working on it, she was sweating from her intense concentration. But she was also smiling, proud of her work.

  He moved on to other tasks, asking her to summon water and fire from within. These came easier to her, and he was able to set up targets for her to aim streams of water at, encouraging her to increase the pressure until she was able to shave the bark off one of the trees.

  “Great,” he exclaimed, proud of her progress in such a short time. “I think you have more power than you know, and you’ll be able to harness it easily.” She grinned, happy that she was able to please him. They did more drills, trying new things for another hour until she was so exhausted, she could barely stand.

  “It’s late,” he explained when she asked why she tired so easily. “And you haven’t done this before. You’re using power from within, remember. It’ll effect you, at least at first, but you’ll learn to build up your stamina the more we practice. I promise.” He looked into her eyes with those last words, and she felt the butterflies coming back. This time, she did not push them down.

  “Thank you,” she said again. “Truly.”

  He shook his head, indicating it was nothing really. “Let’s meet twice weekly, what do you say?” She agreed, though she silently wished it were more often.

  “Have a good night,” she bid him and began to walk off. She felt his hand grab at her wrist, though this time much more gently he had that first night in the Study.

  “Wait,” he said. She turned around quickly, looking him in the eyes as if searching for something. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of his. He said nothing, looking back at her intently. She felt her heartbeat quicken as his wrist held on to hers, watching as he licked his lips to look for the right words.

  “You didn’t tell me what happened,” he said finally, letting her hand go gently. “Why you were hurt. I’m guessing it has to do with whoever it is you want to take down. So, tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  She wasn’t sure if she should tell him the whole truth, but she found herself doing it anyway. She sat down, gesturing for him to join her, and told her story from the beginning. Her crime, her sentencing, and Sylvan’s hatred for her since she arrived at Gatehouse. He listened quietly, not saying a word, though she saw the anger growing in his eyes as she recalled the cruelty she had endured.

  When she finished explaining her last meeting, and how she’d ended up injured, he looked away from her. She regretted speaking so candidly with him and hoped he didn’t think less of her because of it. When he returned his gaze to hers, however, she saw a distinct sympathy in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a quiet voice.

  She reached out to touch his arm. “Don’t be.” She didn’t want the man’s pity. Not because she was ashamed but for another reason, one that was quickly becoming clear to her though she wished she could deny it. But she decided to voice her thoughts aloud, hoping she wouldn’t live to regret her words. “Don’t be sorry because if this hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met you. You’re already proving to be a great teacher, and I know I’ll learn so much more. I don’t regret any of this for a second, because it brought me here.”

  He looked at her, curiosity filling his deep eyes. She stared back and watched as he sat up on his knees and leaned into her, closing the gap between them. Without another word, she felt his lips on hers. His kiss was gentle at first, his lips soft as they pressed against her own. They quickly deepened, and she felt his hunger for her. His yearning, which could only be matched by her own. His hands, which had pulled her neck in at first, began to travel. Through her hair, over her ears and chin, down over her body until they reached her waist. He held on tight, pulling her closer as they continued, refusing to let go for a few moments. Eventually he pulled himself away, though regretfully. He looked down, refusing to look into her eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said apologetically.

  “I didn’t mind,” she replied. She forced herself to sound bold and confident; she wanted him to know she meant it. And that it wouldn’t be so bad if it happened again.

  He smirked at that, half-leering and half-sentimental. “You’re quite a lot to handle.” She laughed at that.

  “I think you may have said that before.”

  “Well, it’s true. Not a bad thing. Quite the opposite.” His smile deepened, taking on a hungry quality. She sat there quietly, taking it all in. His smooth face, his deep eyes, the delectable curve of his lips. He appeared to do the same, his eyes darting around her face and body, before standing up slowly.

  “I must go,” he said regretfully. “It’s late, and you’re tired. I’ll see you here in three days’ time. Is that alright?”

  She agreed, saddened by their imminent parting. Her earlier butterflies turned into a deep tingle, which she knew would hurt when he walked away. But she knew they’d return, so she bid her goodbyes again.

  “Just don’t regret it,” she called out after he lifted his cloak hood and began to walk away. He turned around to face her, his hood covering his eyes. She couldn’t see his expression as he responded, though she could hear that leer in his voice.

  “I won’t. Trust me.”

  With that, he glided off into the dark forest quickly disappearing. She stood there for a moment, taking it all in, before heading back home.

  As she got to the edge of the forest, with the Dwelling just in sight, she heard a rustling behind her. She turned smiling, thinking it was Sampson again. Quickly, panic overtook that elation when she noticed that the shadowed figure much smaller than the Lord and was not wearing his rich cloak. They were wearing the garb of the other servants and inmates, cheap wool and cotton in a drab brown. She quickly tried to hide, hoping it wasn’t someone who would get her into trouble, when she realized who it was.

  “Are you that daft, girl?” Cyran asked as he emerged fully from the dark trees. “It’s only me,” he said in a gentler voice.

  “Cyran!” she exclaimed, relief flooding through her. �
�I forgot you said you would be watching.” Her relief ended there when she realized what it meant. Cyran had been there. Had he seen the whole lesson? Her success with magic was one thing, but if he also saw her intimate moment with Sampson… Her cheeks reddened, mortified at the thought. She said nothing, praying to the stars that he’d missed that particular part of the evening.

  He hadn’t. “I won’t tell you how to live your life,” he chided her without further explanation. “But I will warn you that Lord Sampson is no good. He wasn’t my first choice for a teacher, and you shouldn’t get too close to him. He’ll take advantage of you. Remember who you are to him.”

  Gwenyre’s face stayed red, crossed between embarrassment at being caught and anger at Cyran’s implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

  Cyran sighed, trying to keep her calm. He replied much more gently than he should have, given her own attitude towards him. “It means that, for better or worse, he sees you as a servant. A prisoner. I know you are more than that, but does he?” It was a rhetorical question, but Gwen felt she had to answer.

  “Of course he does,” she said bluntly. He had to. That moment in the woods with him meant something, that was clear to her. He said there was a connection between them. And she had felt it too, pulling them together in an unexpected way. He had to think she was more than just a servant, a prisoner. At least, she hoped he did.

  Cyran didn’t contradict her, not wanting to hurt the girl’s feelings. “Just be careful,” he warned her again, his voice full of sympathy. “And good job,” he added quickly. “You’re powerful, and quite a fast learner. I was impressed.”

  Gwenyre gave him a closed smile, to show she was glad of his praise but still angry at his words. She could not, however, blame him for wanting to protect her. “Thank you, Cyran,” she said in a calmer voice. She reached out and hugged him. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Truly.”