by Bree Aguiar
“I highly doubt it,” Ametrine assured her.
“And what could you possibly have done?” Wind piped up. “Hugged that scrawny little elf? Everyone knows that Edyweine is a twit, no offense. Lord Sampson could not possibly think anything of a hug between two friends.”
Gwenyre had to agree. It was a ridiculous notion to think Sampson, her Sampson, Lord Sampson, would be threatened by Edyweine. Could be jealous of that hug. No, it just wasn’t possible. Something else must have set him off. Whatever it was, she hoped it was solved by tonight. In only a few short hours, they’d be meeting in the Garden and she didn’t want the night ruined by his sour mood.
Ametrine and Wyndemere agreed that they had to make a very special effort on Gwenyre’s appearance tonight. “One look at you when we’re done, and he’ll forget all his troubles. And probably how to stand. The goal is to make him into a puddle on the floor for you.” Gwen laughed, and the girls said their goodbyes to Cyran as they headed off to their dormitory.
After a lot of hair curling, cheek slapping, and careful placement of gooseberry stain on her eyelids, another one of Wyndemere’s special skills, Gwenyre felt like a new woman. She was almost ready to go, but not before Ametrine got out their contraband dress. It wasn’t silk or velvet like she was used to, but it was made of a beautifully rich wool. It was dyed a deep plum color, perfect for the cold weather and more interesting than the brown and beige colors she’d been wearing for the past few months. It surprisingly fit like a dream, aside from being a bit too long for her tiny frame, but that was easily fixed with hidden folds and pins perfectly executed by Wind. When she was ready, Ametrine found a smudged looking glass that allowed Gwenyre to inspect her newly made-up face.
“What do you think?” the girl asked with a smile on her face, showing pride in their job well done. Gwenyre barely recognized herself. The few looks she’d gotten of herself lately showed someone garbed in drab clothes and exhausted from hard work and lack of sleep. The girl in the mirror, however, looked like the old Gwenyre: beautiful, confident, and ready to take on her next adventure.
“Wow,” she exclaimed. “Thank you both. I look… normal again.”
The girls laughed at that, but Wind stopped her before she could leave. “I feel like there’s just one thing missing.” She thought for a moment, before grabbing Gwen’s apron.
“I don’t think that matches the vibe we’re going for Wind,” the elf joked. The nymph rolled her eyes good-naturedly before rifling through the apron’s pockets.
“Here it is,” she exclaimed, pulling out Lenora’s locket. Wyndemere tied the chain in order to shorten it so that the large pendant would sit squarely over her own heart. Gwenyre thought it might look tacky, but one look in the mirror proved her wrong. The subtle gilding on the piece matched the plum color of the dress perfectly, putting the final pieces of her look together.
“Perfect,” the other two girls agreed in unison. Gwenyre pulled them in for a hug, thanking them again before promising to tell them everything in the morning. “I love you guys,” she said with a smile as she headed out the door into the dark night.
This night, there were no fairy lights illuminating the Garden around her. Gwenyre got there a little earlier than expected, the anticipation killing her. She sat on a cold bench, waiting patiently, fingering her locket. And then not so patiently. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew it was far past the time Sampson said he would come. She began to walk around, kicking the grass below her feet and trying to keep herself warm. A half hour passed. Then another. She looked towards the darkened House, daring him to come out. Anger swept over her as she realized the truth of what she had feared earlier that evening: that he was being stupid and pig-headed enough to be cross with her over Edyweine. Over his own ill-placed jealousy of her friendship with the boy. It was childish. It was dumb. And it was extremely frustrating. She wanted to cry out, cursing his name, when she noticed a candle lighting up one of the second-floor windows.
There, in the dim light, she could make out Sampson. He was looking toward the Garden, as if straining to see her. She ducked her body behind a tree, knowing he wouldn’t be able to make her out in the dark if she hid. She wanted nothing to do with him now other than to box his ears. After a moment, he stopped his search and pulled away from the window, though he left the candle on the frame so she could still see into the room. She noticed a second figure in the room walk over to the man, putting their hands on his chest. Her eyes filling with raged tears at what she saw, though she forced herself not to turn away. She focused her eyes, realizing it was a woman dressed in a fine nightgown, tall and fair and horribly beautiful. Gwenyre couldn’t watch anymore; she turned away letting the tears stream down her face silently as she walked back to her bed, cursing Sampson’s name.
Before she could sneak back to the women’s dorm, she heard a noise coming from the other side of the building that made up the Dwelling. She looked over, wiping the red-hot tears from her eyes, to see two figures whispering furiously to each other in the dark. The moonlight shone on the one facing her way, and she was able to see it was Ametrine. The other figure, with its long, grey hair and weathered look, had to be Cyran. Their conversation was hushed, but she could make out several emotions within it: excitement mixed with an anxiousness hidden underneath. She also noticed that they were holding hands. Blushing and not wanting to interrupt whatever that was, she tried to duck inside.
Her foot, however, caught on a branch hidden beneath the snow, and she felt herself toppling over. Ametrine and Cyran looked her way, fear in their eyes until they noticed it was her. They ran over concernedly, until they realized she wasn’t hurt. Ametrine couldn’t stop herself from giggling, while Cyran gave her a stern look.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked darkly.
“I could ask the same of you,” she countered, the bitterness clear in her voice. Ametrine immediately stopped giggling, looking at her friend with worry. The girl turned to Cyran, telling him to go on without her.
“We can talk more in the morning,” Ametrine said to Cyran, silently begging him to leave through her eyes. He obliged, bowing to the two girls and bidding them a good night. Ametrine pulled Gwenyre up from the cold ground, and immediately began interrogating her about the night.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in a pitying voice. “I expected you to come back much later, and with much less tear stains on your face. Who do I have to hurt?” The last part was said as a joke, but Gwenyre didn’t doubt the girl would try her hardest to hurt Sampson if it came to that.
Gwenyre tried to shake her off, too emotionally exhausted to explain. “It’s nothing,’ she lied. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Before she could open the door to the Dwelling, Aimee pulled her back.
“I know when you’re lying Gwenyre Caryra,” she said, folding her arms as she gave the elf a stern look. “You’re not particularly good at it. Tell me, please.” The last remark was much gentler, and her look of pity returned.
“Well, what were you doing out here with Cyran?” Gwenyre asked in an accusatory voice, trying to avoid answering.
“Don’t try to change the subject. I’ll tell you after you tell me what’s wrong.”
Knowing there was little chance of the girl giving up, Gwenyre told her the truth of what had happened. Her waiting for the man to show up, realizing why he wasn’t coming, and then that absolutely mortifying sight in the window. As she spoke it aloud, Gwenyre realized her sadness over the matter was gone. Now she was just livid. When she said his name, it was filled with spite. How could he do this to her? Betray her over something so stupid. Did she mean nothing to him? Did their time mean nothing?
Noticing the elf’s rising anger, Ametrine pulled her friend in for a hug. “Shh,” she whispered to the girl to calm her. “It’s alright. He’s nothing. A speck of dust. Not even worth your tears. He doesn’t deserve someone like you.” Gwenyre started to feel the tears fall again as her friend tried to make it all better. �
��I’ll kill him,” Ametrine announced. “I’ll do it.” Gwenyre found herself laughing at that.
“And be stuck here forever?” Gwenyre asked sarcastically. “No. Like you said, he’s definitely not worth it.”
Seeing her friend joke made Ametrine smile as she released her hug. Gwenyre wiped her tears once again, shaking off her emotions and vowing to deal with it tomorrow. “Wait,” she said, remembering why she’d even run into her friend. “Now you have to tell me, what were you and Cyran doing out here?”
Ametrine blushed, but her story was not what Gwenyre expected. “I think we may have found something in our investigation of Sylvan. I have a plan tomorrow, but Cyran thinks it’s a bad idea. I told him it’s the only way. He wanted to do it, but I wouldn’t let him. He’d get caught, but I won’t. I know it.”
Gwenyre was intrigued. “What’s the plan?”
“I can’t tell you,” Ametrine said, shaking her head. “I don’t even want to tell Wind. Just in case something goes wrong.”
Gwenyre felt her stomach drop out of fear. “Aimee, don’t you dare do something dangerous.” Ametrine took her friend’s hands in her own and looked into her eyes as she promised it wasn’t dangerous.
“I know I can be careful, and I know it needs to be done. Just trust me Gwenyre. I’m going to get you out of here. And then you can rub it in that stupid Sampson’s dumb face.” Gwenyre laughed at that and had to admit that was a prospect that gave her hope. She agreed not to impede on the girl’s plan, as long as she stayed safe. The girls walked into the Dwelling together, hand-in-hand. Even though it was a horrible day, Gwenyre couldn’t help but feel grateful for her friends as she fell into a fitful sleep, filled with nightmares of pig-headed men, cruel punishments, and dangers yet to come.
21 A DISCOVERY
When Gwenyre woke up the next morning, Ametrine was nowhere to be found. She assumed it had to do with whatever plan she was talking about last night, so she assured Wyndemere the girl would meet up with them at some point as they made their way over to the House. When they eventually found the girl taking a nap in the pantry just before lunch, Gwenyre let out a sigh of relief. “Where were you?” she asked, shaking the girl awake.
Rubbing her tired eyes, the girl mumbled her answer back. “I’ll explain at lunch. But I think we got it. I’ve just got to talk to Cyran.” Upon hearing this, Gwenyre couldn’t stop from smiling, even when Miz Kalina found them and gave a stern berating for their laziness. She knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, but she needed good news. Especially after last night.
Despite her optimism at the prospect of Ametrine’s good news, the negative thoughts of yesterday kept haunting her as she worked. She saw Sampson occasionally in the halls, but he refused to even look her way. She vowed to confront him as soon as she got the chance, her anger rising quickly.
It also didn’t help that the morning was filled with talk of Sylvan’s particularly bad mood. She saw several other servants crying over recent encounters with him, and it was clear he was on a rampage. As she was headed to lunch, Gwenyre heard the rumors: someone had broken into the High Warden’s personal office. The extent of what happened was unclear; some said the place was just trashed, others said his personal items were stolen, and even more said he’d been left a not-so-pleasant present from whomever his little visitor was. But all the rumors shared one fact: his office was ransacked and Sylvan was pissed. Not wanting to incur his wrath, Gwenyre decided to keep a low profile the rest of the day as she headed to lunch.
The other girls joined her, Ametrine yawning on the entire walk. As soon as they sat down with Cyran, Gwenyre badgered her to open up about her morning and the success of their plan. With bags under her eyes, Ametrine reached into her apron pocket to pull something out. She placed an oversized, leather-bound journal on the table in front of them. Gwenyre looked at it with wide eyes, hoping it wasn’t what she thought.
“Please don’t tell me this is Sylvan’s…” From its size, there was no doubt it belonged to a troll. And with the morning rumors going around, Gwenyre couldn’t help but feel anxiety filling her entire body.
“Of course it is,” the girl said with a wicked smirk.
“He’s going to kill you!” Wyndemere exclaimed. Cyran shook his head, grumbling at the girl’s insolence.
“You told me your plan wasn’t dangerous,” Gwenyre reminded her.
“It wasn’t,” the girl said, shaking off their concerns. “I’m fine, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but Sylvan is out for blood now. Haven’t you heard?”
“He’ll never know it was me,” Ametrine assured them. “And anyway, this was more important. It proves what we suspected. Sylvan’s hatred of Gwenyre, her imprisonment here, it’s all unfair! We can use this to get you out.”
Confused how this could help, Gwenyre raised her eyebrows at her friend. Ametrine explained in full detail, using the journal as needed. “Cyran got the idea when you told us about your meetings with the troll. What would he ask you about time and time again, even though you wouldn’t give him any useful answers?”
Gwenyre didn’t even have to think to answer. She recalled the memories quickly, remembering her frustration as he’d ask her the same things over and over, regardless of her answers. “My family. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“We’re getting to that,” Ametrine continued. “His questions were always the same: where they are, what they’re doing, who their friends and allies are. Why should he care? Unless they meant something to him. That’s when Cyran remembered your hearing back in Newbridge with the City Council – the one that landed you here.”
Cyran picked up the explanation from there, following Ametrine’s nudging. “It was a small thing; you may not even remember. But I did. The Council leader, a troll, pronounced your name correctly. Your given name. Rare, as our dialect is much different and can be difficult for trollish mouths. It may have been nothing, but I felt something when he read your name aloud. A recognition, yes. But more than that. A hatred. A burning rage. A hidden desire for revenge.”
“Sylvan knew my name too,” Gwenyre commented quietly. “He pronounced it correctly during our first meeting. I thought it was odd, but…” The girl felt herself trailing off as she thought harder. “No,” she finally announced, shaking her head as she decided any connection these two had formed in their heads was preposterous. “My family has no relation to trolls. We barely interact with other elves – my parents are practically hermits! How would Sylvan or this City Councilor know anything about them, never mind know their names well enough to hold some sort of secret resentment?”
“Well,” Ametrine said, picking back up with their theory. “It turns out that your family was quite the force in the Fifth War. This journal mentions that the Caryra’s were well-known battle leaders of the elven forces. Their history has been buried, probably to keep others from rallying behind them.”
“This journal said all that?” Gwenyre asked incredulously. She’d never heard of her family members being involved in the Fifth War, the bloodiest conflict in history that led to the end of the elven reign and the capture of Newbridge for the rising Troll Dynasty. She’d thought such a fact would’ve been shared with her at some point if it were true.
“Of course not,” Ametrine replied. “Cyran and I figured that out weeks ago, digging through history books in the Study and interviewing some of the older elves and trolls here that still remember. There’s mention of an elven family with an unseen power of magic that decimated troll forces throughout the war. They don’t say the name, but they do say that trolls were never able to truly defeat them. They tried all the same, and it took years of bloody battles. But, finally, the trolls were able to break through their magical barriers and overwhelm their forces. The leaders – part of your family – were able to escape and went into exile. Their names were erased from history, but their legacy remained.”
Gwenyre thought about it, still in disbelief. While it would explain a lot of
things in her life, her family’s insistence on living like hermits, their refusal at her desire to visit Newbridge before she snuck off, her unfair sentencing by the highest court for such a small crime… But it couldn’t be true. She denied it before asking another question. “What does this have to do with the journal anyway?”
Ametrine explained; Sylvan had been a commander in the troll army during the war. He and his brother led the battalions that were finally able to break through the unstoppable magic of the elven force, decimating countless elves in their attempt to capture and execute the Caryra’s. “He explains it all right here, saying how there was no doubt of your lineage. Apparently, you look just like the woman his brother was able to capture for a moment. Until she ripped him apart using her magic, killing him quickly and brutally. That’s how she and her husband escaped. The war was won for the trolls, but Sylvan never got over the tragedy.”
Gwenyre still couldn’t believe it was true and looked to Cyran to dispel the girl’s insanity. But he nodded his head, siding with Ametrine. “He proves it here. I knew he must’ve hated you for a reason you couldn’t help, and this is it.”
She sat back in shock, unable to take in the thought of what it meant. Her family’s past, their magic, their legacy had led to all of this? She wasn’t sure how to feel.
“How will this help me get out?” she asked, searching for an answer to the only question that truly mattered out of all of the others bouncing around in her brain.
“Well, we’re working on that part…” Ametrine admitted rather glumly. “But it proves there was some injustice based off your lineage. I think, if we go through the proper channels, we can make an argument that you should be released.”
Gwenyre laughed bitterly at the prospect. “I doubt that’ll work. What proper channels are going to take the side of an enemy over their own?”
“Well, perhaps we could take it to someone who knows you. I was thinking Sampson, but…”