by Bree Aguiar
Gwenyre’s face blanched. The only other life-timer that these elves had ever heard of, locked up for war crimes against the trolls. Beaten constantly, never allowed outside. Elves needed to be outdoors regularly. How this Gordoba survived without it was beyond her. But it made no sense. “All I did was light a small fire!” she exclaimed in shock. “Controlled, and barely enough to light my way! I’m not this Gordoba elf. Nor a rebel leader, like you. How is this fair?”
Cyran’s eyes flashed with anger. “Fair?!” he spat. He was usually stoic, but something about what she’d said set him off. “Trolls are not fair. Not to elves, especially. But this has nothing to do with your crime; it only has to do with you.”
“What does that even mean?” she challenged him, pushing up her chin in defiance. She was a good elf, not like him. She’d never even stolen a piece of candy, never mind getting locked up once a decade in this Gatehouse place like Cyran. Everything to do with her, what codswallop!
“You didn’t listen,” he explained in anger. “You admitted no wrong, asked for no punishment. And the Council Leader knew something about you. I felt it. The second he said your name, he was ready to send you away. It was no help that you refused to admit your wrong.”
“How can that be?” she continued questioning. “I’ve never met a troll before this week, and certainly not the leader of a Council in Newbridge. I’m just a youngling from Ríhda, barely past my Marking Day!”
The desperation in her voice struck a chord within Cyran, who calmed down slightly. “I don’t know how he knows you, or what he knows of you, but there was recognition there. I was generally bad at magic, not like you, but I did pick up a knack for being an empath. I’m sorry, little one, but your name and pride doomed you from the start.”
Gwenyre felt defeated. If Cyran was right, and he likely was (empathic elves were typically strong in their readings), then she was fated for this through no fault of her own. She had done nothing to deserve this, other than leave the town she called home. How she longed to return and hug her parents, her housemaidens and servants, even her annoying cousins once again.
That brought her next thought to mind. “My family!” she said. “Will I be able to speak to them, see them again? How will they know what’s become of me?”
If Cyran was about to answer, he was given no time. The door opened, and in strode three fairies and one familiar-looked elf. It was their representatives, ready to take each elf off to their repayments and Gwenyre off to her new life.
4 THE LONG JOURNEY
The familiar-looking elf turned out to be Edyweine. The others were escorted away by the faeries to various other offices throughout the palace, though not before saying their tearful goodbyes to Gwenyre and Cyran. Gwenyre suspected that their tears were more relief over not being in her shoes than grief over their departure. This suspicion was confirmed by Yuna’s quiet whisper in her ear after their hug. “I can’t say I’m not relieved to be getting off easy, deary. But you’ll be just fine.” And with that, they each went their separate ways.
That left Cyran and Gwenyre with Edyweine, who looked much more regal in a new traveling clock and unrumpled felt hat. “Mistress Lenora will be spending a relaxing few weeks at Gatehouse while her mother-in-law is in town. We are to escort her there.” They walked out of Court Room 213 together, Edyweine with his sloped nose held high, Gwenyre with her eyes down low, and Cyran looking nonplussed and stoic once again.
Before they could go to Gatehouse, however, they had to go through the “bureaucratic whim-wham” as Cyran called it. Papers were filled out, fingerprints were taken, and pinpricks were given. “Just a quick drop of blood for their files,” Cyran explained. “I don’t suspect they use it for anything, other than a brief second of torture for us and another administrative box to check for them.” They were each handed a bundle and escorted to a back door, ready to begin the journey to Gwenyre’s new life.
Outside was another transport cart, though this one was much less rickety than the one they had arrived in. It was actually rather large and ornamental, almost fit for a queen. Edyweine nudged them towards the cart, and Gwenyre went to open the door. “Oh no,” he said, pushing it closed with a mocking laugh. “We’ll be in the front.”
The “front” was a small bench behind the coach seat, typically reserved for extra luggage. The three elves squeezed in, though Edyweine was more than willing to spread out his knees in the middle much to the chagrin of Gwenyre; she was placed on the end and knew that a good bump would knock her right off. Cyran did not seem to mind, however, appearing just as stoic as ever.
The driver joined them shortly, a small dwarf with large hands to grip the reins. The transport was led to the front of the palace, where Lenora made her way gracefully (well as graceful as a troll can be) down the front steps. When she neared the carriage, Edyweine quickly jumped out of his seat over Gwenyre to open the doors for her. The troll settled into the spacious carriage alone, stretching out with what appeared to be a bottle of mead and a delicious looking box of pastries. Gwenyre took the opportunity to reseat herself, pushing closer to Cyran. He smiled at her slightly, then plopped his elbow up and rested his chin atop it. “It’s quite a ride,” he commented in a sleepy voice. “I’d get comfortable if I were you.” With that, the old elf fell quickly asleep. Or so Gwenyre thought. If he was sleeping, he did it silently, his eyes remaining closed for much of the trip.
Edyweine returned to the bench, pursing his lips when he noticed his comfortable spot was taken. He didn’t deign to utter a complaint, however, and told the driver they were ready to go. With a flick of the reigns, the carriage took off for a rather bumpy ride.
Cyran was right; the ride was quite long. A few minutes after taking off, Gwenyre asked Edyweine when they were expected to arrive, and he turned to her with an exasperated sigh. “I’d say well after dinner, probably closer to full dark. It’s past the city gates, towards the western side of the wall. We’ll have to take the long-way through, to avoid the more…” he searched for a kinder word. “Unkempt districts.” He pursed his lips, clearly disgusted by those districts and the creatures that lived there. Gwenyre had no idea which parts of the city that he was speaking of; she hadn’t been in Newbridge long enough to stumble upon anything that looked particularly rough. She assumed the city was generally wealthy, as she’d only heard stories of its modernity and posh. But I’ve assumed a lot of things about this city, she thought to herself. Assumptions that were dead wrong and have led me to this mess. I guess I should stop being so naïve.
Edyweine continued, interrupting her thoughts. “Typically, Mistress Lenora would have us stop at an inn towards the edge of the city for the night. She has a lot of connections with the best innkeepers and merchants.” He smiled at that, looking smug, as if he had anything to be smug about. What sort of place was this, where elves worked lowly jobs for trolls and actually took pride in it? “However,” he started again, his smile turning into a grimace. “Because we have you two, she will not be able to make that stop. So expect to be travelling well into the night.” With that, he harrumphed and turned his back to her to look out at the city.
Gwenyre couldn’t help but look at the sights herself. She hadn’t been in Newbridge long and had generally stayed close to her inn during her short time traversing the streets. Everything was absolutely massive, and there was an air of mishmash to it all. Ancient elven citadels, blending with nature, were paired next to newer structures made of rough-cut stone similar to the palace of the Council. The elven buildings were slender and tall, mimicking trees in the forest, with plenty of light let in through the various windows. They contrasted highly with the stocky stones that were mostly devoid of windows and greyer than Cyran’s hair. Gwenyre couldn’t decide if the effect of the kaleidoscopic juxtaposition was pleasing. She, like most elves, preferred the forest-inspired buildings. But something about the power of the low stones was intriguing; their mass was a different kind but overpowering all the same.
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nbsp; The diversity of the city around her didn’t stop there. Everywhere she looked, she saw creatures of all sorts. Trolls mostly of course, coming in and out of the various buildings. Speaking loudly to one another, belching, shaking their massive heads. It was quite a sight. But there were others as well. Humans and fairies and goblins and even the occasional centaur. (The latter surprised Gwenyre. Being from Ríhda, she had met many centaurs in her life, all of which openly condemned cities and creature-built structures – they preferred grassy knolls and natural forests.) She did see elves as well, she could tell from their sharp features, small eyes, and soft hair. Elves were good at finding others of their kind, in ways that most other creatures could not. But they, like Edyweine, appeared to have shaven ears, though most in a much more skilled fashion than his own. Those few that did not appear to have shaven ears mostly had their ears hidden, beneath bonnets and caps and even tendrils of curled hair. She felt her stomach turn, and reached up to touch her own ears, feeling their points, their muscles and tendons with her dainty fingers. They twitched at her light touch, and Edyweine turned to her as if reading her mind.
“They won’t shave them for you at Gatehouse,” he said in a bored voice. “At least, not against your will. Probably not even if you asked.”
She looked at him sharply. “Why would I ask them to do that? I love my ears. I’m proud them, proud to be an elf.”
“Of course you are,” he responded with contempt “Full of elven pride. Pride that got you stuck on this carriage, going towards your new life of what basically amounts to slavery.”
It was her turn to harrumph. She was prideful? What about him, with his smug face and eyes lighting up at the mere mention of his mistress? “Oh, don’t give me that,” he said. “If you weren’t so full of yourself and just apologized, like I so blatantly suggested, you would definitely not be in this predicament. Or at least not as seriously. One term, maybe two. Not life.”
Now she was angry. She felt the tips of her ears turning red with rage. “Why would I apologize for something I didn’t do? And why would I listen to an elf like you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?!”
“You talk about my pride, but what about your shame? With your shaven ears and your trollish mistress? You’d rather be a pet than a proper elf. Well not me. I’d rather be arrogant than a disgrace like you.”
She thought her harsh words would make him even angrier than herself. She was used to her hot temper setting others off. (“The curse of the Caryra’s,” her mother used to say.) And anger did flash in his face, but only for a brief second before it was swept over by humiliation. His cheeks turned pink as the tips of his misshapen ears twitched frightfully under his cap. The cart stayed silent, aside from the rumbling of the wheels and brief snores from Cyran. Edyweine looked down at his feet before mumbling something that made her stomach drop.
“I am a disgrace,” he said slowly and quietly. “Always wanting to be something I’m not. Which is why I did this.” He gestured to the ears beneath the felt cap. “I had to go to a back-street butcher to get it done cheap.”
The sinking feeling continued to hold in her stomach, but she had to know. “Why?” she asked, much more gently than before. “Why do that? Why be ashamed?”
He laughed quietly, full of spite that was not directed at her. “Because I live here. If you want to make it in Newbridge, you cannot be an elf. I couldn’t get my cushy job with one of the most well-respected troll families looking like an elf.” Gwenyre raised her eyebrows with a question that Edyweine seemed to silently understand. “She knows what I am, of course, but Mistress Lenora is better than most trolls. The others don’t care for elves much, but they truly only despise the prideful ones. Shaving your ears is basically a rite of passage in the city. Shaving off your past, your culture, and most importantly your pride. And, if you’re lucky, most people will never recognize you for what you truly are. Not for me though,” he added bitterly. “Turns out butchers aren’t great at cosmetic surgery. If you couldn’t figure me for what I am, you’re either blind or a simple ogre.”
She nodded, understanding Edyweine a bit more. But why stay here, where he and his kind were condemned? She was planning to leave the first second she could, back home where she could live for herself. Why stay? She asked him this in a tender voice.
“This is my home,” he said bluntly. “It’s all I’ve ever known. I don’t know where my parents are from or even where they are. I just know I was born and raised here in Newcastle, learning from trolls and humans and fairies. They’ve treated me well, well enough to have survived this long growing up in and out of orphanages, so I can’t complain too much.”
How hard that must have been. Gwenyre panged once again for the slow, kind streets of Ríhda. For her family and friends. For the Cycle Day celebrations that were probably going on right now in her village. She reached over to him with her small palm, grabbing his wrist and smiling up at him slightly. He seemed to appreciate the gesture briefly before shaking her off, sitting up tall, and straightening his hat. She gladly returned to the silence until she realized something.
“You never answered my question,” she piped up.
“What question?”
“Why would I ever want to shave my ears? Like you said,” she tried to invoke a light teasing to ease the tension. “I’m a proud elf. Why would I ever want to do that to my beautiful, majestic ears?”
He smirked at her joke, but she could see the light leave his eyes, acting as a harbinger to a darker answer than she expected. “Like I said, the lucky ones don’t get recognized for elves. Expect… harsher treatment than most at Gatehouse. A least at first.” She grimaced at the news and sat back in an effort not to cry tears of frustration at it all.
“Well, I won’t do it,” she said, mustering all the dignity left in her voice. “Not ever. They can hate me, but I won’t hate myself. And I will find a way to be free. I swear it.”
She could see the disbelief on his face, but he had nothing to say. They sat in silence for quite a while – a silence that screamed of shame, of pride, and of the occasional snore from Cyran.
* * *
Shortly before sunset, the transport pulled to a slow stop somewhere within a sleepy area of the city. Gwenyre had fallen asleep at some point, her head resting on Cyran’s shoulder throughout the rough ride, but the sudden cessation jolted her awake. “Are we here?” she mumbled, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. Edyweine looked at her through his own sharp eyes – eyes that had clearly not been muddled by any sleep during their travels.
“Of course not,” he responded, as if she were supposed to know anything about where they were. “We’re in the Subarian district. My mistress got a bit famished and asked the driver to stop for dinner. There’s a wonderful dining hall just down this street, owned by one of the most talented little dwarves you’ll ever meet. Not that you’ll actually meet him of course.”
From his tone, it was clear that Edyweine was back to being his old, puffed-up self. It was as if their conversation from earlier, his admission of his inborn shame, had never happened. He probably wishes it hadn’t, Gwenyre thought to herself.
She was not wrong. It was silly of Edyweine to trust his thoughts about himself and information about his past to such a hot-tempered, disobedient elf. If his mistress learned about his feelings, and that he was so open with such a criminal… He shuttered at the thought. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself from speaking with her. Something about Gwenyre made him feel vulnerable, exposing the pieces of him that he had hidden deep inside. But that could not happen. Thankfully he had not shared too much with her, but he knew a lot more than he should about Newbridge and its rulers. The things he learned from his Mistress and through the occasional eavesdropping were not to be shared with someone like Gwenyre. So, he would shut her out by being the worst thing she thought an elf could be: a pompous pet for his troll master.
“And what will we be eating, laddie?” Cyran piped up from his slum
ber. While he had apparently been asleep the entire time, not even noticing when Gwenyre’s head fell onto his shoulder, he looked more awake than all of them. “I know they don’t like us, but they’ll have to feed us. They can be cruel, but not unjust.”
Edyweine sniffed at Cyran, nose up in the air. He adjusted the leather gloves on his hands, looking at them as he explained. “The driver will be picking up the scraps for us to eat while my Mistress is enjoying dessert. Normally, I’d be allowed to go in and eat a meal in the back quarters of the hall, but not with the likes of you. Someone needs to watch over the riff-raff.” It was clear that he was not pleased with the situation, seeing himself as a creature above the criminals that were Gwenyre and Cyran. “And don’t even bother to think of trying to escape,” he added. “I’m faster and stronger than you think, and that would anger Mistress Lenora more than you can imagine. I do not want to see her become foul over two leaf-lickers such as yourselves.”
Now it was Gwenyre’s turn to sniff at him. Leaf-lickers, as if he wasn’t one himself. She usually was not offended by the term, but coming out of his mouth, especially after his admission of shame at being an elf, just irked her. The three of them sat alone in silence as Lenora was escorted into the dining hall by the driver, waiting for their meals.
They waited for quite some time; Lenora, like most trolls, had a rather large appetite. This hall specialized in a six-course menu, and the first five courses before dessert dragged on endlessly. Finally, the driver came out with a small sack and tossed it toward Edyweine, whose claim of being fast was quickly refuted as he stumbled to catch it in time, failing as the sack hit the ground. None of the food was ruined, however. That was mostly due to the fact that the sack consisted of uncooked vegetables and potatoes, and not good-looking ones. They clearly were given the pieces of food not fit to be served to the higher class. Gwenyre was not angry or annoyed, however. It had been days since she ate a vegetable. After too much horse stew, a little bruised carrot or runty potato was like a feast.