by Bree Aguiar
The three elves ate quickly in a shared silence, though Edyweine appeared to be disgusted at the thought of eating raw vegetables without so much as a napkin, never mind a plate and utensils. Following their meal, they sat around waiting. “Mistress is probably thanking the chef, and saying hello to everyone there,” Edyweine explained in his haughty tone. “Only the elites dine at this establishment, and Mistress Lenora knows them all.”
“Of course she does,” commented Cyran. “A fine troll such as herself.”
Edyweine could not tell if he was being sarcastic, so he sniffed at him without comment. But Cyran did not stop there.
“She seems to uphold many of the finest traditions of the high-class your mistress, does she not?” He phrased it as a question, hoping it would entice Edyweine to actually respond. Which it did, of course; it appeared that he would not miss any opportunity to praise his mistress when he could.
“Why, of course! Mistress comes from a long line of troll nobles. She is second cousins with the King!” He proclaimed this boldly, before mumbling the next bit. “Or perhaps third… Maybe first, twice removed? I’m not really sure…” His voice picked up again. “Either way, she is practically royalty as far as Newbridge is concerned.”
Cyran clearly did not care about Lenora’s hazy family tree, but Gwenyre could tell that he was after something with all of his lauding, continuing to sing Lenora’s praises. “I could tell, just from the air around her. And, of course, her wonderful bone structure. She is a fine troll, full of tradition and culture.” Gwenyre gave him a side-eye, wondering what he was up to.
Edyweine nodded, still oblivious to whatever it was Cyran was doing. “That she is. Very fine, and very traditional.”
“So, she would enjoy the tradition of, let’s say, having a fine pipe of leaf weed after dinner?”
Ah. Now it was clear what he was after, to Gwenyre at least. But not Edyweine. “Why of course!” he responded, seemingly in shock that Cyran would even think otherwise. “All high-class trolls partake in a pipe after dinner. Mistress prefers a particular strain from Hoodá, she just so happens to know the troll who owns the farm. All elf-staffed of course. The one good thing about elves is their penchant for harvesting the finest leaf weed in the North.”
“Yes, yes,” Cyran mumbled his responses. “How good of her. And she would, of course, carry this leaf weed with her during her travels?”
“Obviously!” Edyweine’s ignorance was beginning to crack Gwenyre up. She tried to hold back a laugh, covering her mouth so he would not see, but a quick snort got through. Loud enough to make him realize what was going on. “Oh, don’t you even think about it!” he exclaimed, as Cyran began inching his way to the inside of her carriage.
“You said we weren’t to escape,” the old elf explained to Edyweine. “If you expect me to endure another few hours in a cart with you and the smelly dwarf, I’ll need some leaf weed. Only the finest will do.” Edyweine began to physically try and push him away, but Cyran easily overpowered him to enter the carriage and begin rifling through luggage, ignoring Edyweine’s whining. After a minute or so, he found what he was looking for: a box full of the most pungent leaf weed Gwenyre had ever encountered. “Ah, she brought so much she won’t even notice.” He pulled a small pipe out of his clothes (leaving Gwenyre shocked how he had held onto it so long without it being discovered in the holding cell) and filled it to the brim.
While he was doing this, Edyweine took hold of the matchsticks that his mistress usually used to light the stuff. He held it far behind him, sure that Cyran would not be able to reach it. “And how will you enjoy it without this, eh?” Cyran stepped forward, intending to wrestle it from the young elf, but Edyweine stepped back and raised his hand in warning. “You try, and I will throw it. Mistress will assume I forgot to pack it. Now I’m sure I’ll get reamed for that, but better than you stealing her finest treasures! Now put the leaf weed back, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
This threat did not phase Cyran. He turned to Gwenyre, who was watching the whole exchange silently. Her wide eyes were mixed between laughter and shock; how they could fight over this while she was on her way to a life-time sentence of slavery baffled her. Cyran shocked her more, however, with his next question. “Would you mind lighting this for me, little one?”
She folded her arms across her chest, sitting back. “And how do you propose I do that?” She was not going to ask Edyweine for the matches, and she certainly wasn’t going to fight him for them. This was Cyran’s juvenile battle, not hers.
He looked at her with incredulity. “Are you not an elf?” he asked.
“Yes, but I am not going to fight another elf for leaf weed. I don’t even like the stuff!”
“No,” he rolled his eyes as she missed the point. “You are an elf. An elf with magic. Fire magic, if I remember your tale correctly.”
If Gwenyre was shocked before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now: offended that he would ask her to conjure fire when it was what led to this…situation in the first place. It was like a harsh slap in the face. She told him such, but he rolled his eyes again.
“Listen,” he explained. “No-one is around. That troll will be in there for at least another hour, gabbing with the aristocrats. Us hoi polloi out here deserve at least one last little enjoyment before tomorrow.” She did not budge, so he tried a new tactic. “And, if you do this, I will be sure to watch over you when I am at Gatehouse. I can’t promise much, but I will try my hardest to make it bearable. A big promise for just a very tiny bit of light.”
Gwenyre thought about it. Cyran was a stoic man, but he was clearly smart. He had been to Gatehouse before and had survived long enough to leave each time. She assumed a repeat offender would have been tossed in there for life, but he came out above it all every time. Plus, he likely had connections there. She would never know when she might need his help.
Edyweine watched the whole exchange, shaking his head incessantly. He interrupted her thoughts with an exclamation. “Don’t do it, Gwenyre! Not for this bad elf!”
If she wasn’t convinced before, that proclamation had done it. Edyweine was barely an elf himself; anyone who was a bad elf to him was clearly more worthy than he would ever know. Looking Edyweine directly in the eye, she nodded her assent slowly to Cyran. “Alright, just this once. And just a little.” Edyweine groaned loudly as Cyran’s face light up in a smile.
He pushed the little pipe towards her right palm, as she conjured up the small flame. She was always good at magic, better than most anyway, but she couldn’t do much more than that after a week of barely sleeping and eating. Cyran ran the chamber over the flame, sucking on the stem until the leaves sparked slightly. He inhaled deeply before blowing out the deep sweet-smelling smoke contentedly. He sat back in his seat on the bench as he continued puffing. Eventually he passed it over to her, raising his eyebrows as an invitation.
She accepted the pipe, though mildly reluctantly. While leaf weed was something elves typically enjoyed, she was always iffy about its taste and penchant for making her cough. Before taking it in, she inspected the pipe. It appeared to be made of a light rose-wood and was covered in hand-carved artwork: leaves and flowers and elven-symbols and even a small, naked figure that was definitely female, its delicate bosom exposed. As she took it in, she made an effort to place her finger over that particular carving in a way to cover it.
After one puff of Lenora’s stash, Gwenyre could see the appeal. Edyweine was not unduly bragging when he said that this was some of the finest leaf weed in the land. It had a rich taste, smooth on her tongue. She blew out the sweet smoke slowly, not feeling a need to cough. She suddenly felt lighter than before and smiled contentedly at Cyran before handing it back.
They passed it between themselves for a few slow minutes, though Cyran took more than her which each round. She didn’t mind, though. She was happy as she was. Eventually, the old elf even offered it to Edyweine, who had returned to his seat on the bench, lips pu
rsed as he made an effort to ignore them. “No thank you!” he spat, recoiling at the offer. Cyran shrugged his shoulders and continued the ritual of the pipe, though decidedly louder. He sighed with content, oohing and aahing after each particularly long puff, all the while staring at Edyweine side-eyed. It began to be too much for the boy, and he eventually gave in.
“Alright, just one! If you are going to steal from my mistress, I might as well have some. To make sure not all of her stash is going to riff-raff and criminals.” His reasoning made no sense to Gwenyre, but she was too comfortable to care. Cyran passed the pipe to him, and he took it awkwardly, as if holding a pencil. The way he sucked on the stem, with his perpetually pursed lips even more pronounced, made Gwenyre laugh out loud.
Offended, he stopped the action short in an effort to berate her. Doing so, however, made the smoke catch in his throat and travel uncomfortably down his lungs. He began to spatter, trying hard to tell her off between loud coughs. “Don’t” cough “you” cough “dare” cough, cough, cough “laugh at me!” The predicament made Gwenyre laugh louder, and even Cyran joined in. By the time he got his breath back, practically throwing the pipe to Cyran, he was none too pleased. He turned away again, crossing his arms and looking towards the dining hall, silently begging his mistress to return so they could be off again and separated from these criminals as soon as possible.
“Oh, don’t be that way,” Gwenyre placated. The leaf weed had made her relaxed and much more pliable to Edyweine’s snooty self. “We were just joking. Have another, Edy.”
She hadn’t meant to call him by this nickname. Not consciously anyway. It just slipped out with ease. He lowered his eyes at her upon hearing this, which immediately woke her up from her stupor of contentment. Something about the way he looked was a bit scary, though she couldn’t quite place why. She was waiting for him to yell at her, to command her to never refer to him by that name again, to never even speak in his general direction. But he did not. Instead, he just stared.
Feeling the tension, Cyran stepped in. “Please don’t be hurt, young one. We were just enjoying ourselves one last time.” Gwenyre thought he was going to apologize, like he had back with the Council, but he did not. Apparently Cyran still held some degree of elven pride, and apologizing to this particular elf was difficult for him.
Edyweine finally spoke up again. “My mistress will be returning soon. I suggest you get rid of the evidence of your latest crimes.” With that, he turned around again and waited with his eyes to the doors of the hall once more.
Cyran finished the last of the leaf weed and emptied the pipe, tapping it to the ground lightly, just as the driver and Lenora emerged. Jumping out, Edyweine opened the carriage doors for her. Gwenyre could hear him speaking with her, asking her how dinner was, how her friends were, if she needed anything else. Clearly exhausted from her long escapades, she waved him off. “Let us go quickly,” she called to the driver. “I am ready for a warm bath and a large bed.” They settled back in for the remainder of their quiet journey, now full of tension, as they made their approach to Gatehouse well after midnight.
5 THE ARRIVAL
Gatehouse was vastly different from what Gwenyre expected. While she was told it was an “estate,” she still pictured it as a prison in her head: cold and grey and harsh. But even in darkness, she could see beauty and colors illuminated under the light of the moon and the lamps littered throughout the pathway to the main house. The carriage came to a stop in front of a grand set of steps leading to what looked like a mansion. Unlike the troll-made buildings that she’d seen in Newbridge, this structure was much different. For one thing, it was not made up of mismatched, enormous stone. Rather, the façade consisted of what felt like thousands of precisely cut bricks, mortared together in such an exact manner that displayed hand-made craftsmanship. Pointed turrets and watchtowers rose above the main building in seemingly random places but did not give off an air of haphazardness. Instead, the asymmetry of it all looked beautiful. Each of the windows was encased in white wood to make them stand out, and the various roofs appeared to be made of expensive tiles. Tile-roofs were rare, to her at least since they were not the preference of elves or trolls. Gwenyre could not wait to see the beauty of the tiles, each clearly handcrafted and promising to be unique, when the sun rose again.
The little elf was not sure if this was Edyweine’s first trip to Gatehouse; if it was, then he appeared to be less than impressed. He barely took in the beauty of the castle as he hurried off to help his mistress. Pushing the driver out of the way, lest he beat him to opening the door, Edyweine almost tripped over himself in the dark. He was able to get the door open with quite an exaggerated bow as Lenora stepped down slowly. The bench beneath Gwenyre shook under the troll’s heavy feet, and Cyran (who was still napping at that point) was jolted awake. The little driver, clearly annoyed by Edyweine’s eagerness, shot him a dirty look and began to grab the various leather purses and luggage from the cart. Gwenyre, given no instruction, was unsure what to do. She looked to Cyran to see if he had any ideas, but he was busy picking dirt from under his fingernails and looking bored by the whole situation.
Gwenyre watched as Edyweine attempted to escort Lenora up the wooden steps into the palace until the troll shooed the boy away. They said something to each other briefly, Lenora’s words clearly a command that Gwenyre could surprisingly not make out from her seat on the carriage. Whatever it was, it made the driver’s look change from displeasure to delight, puffing out his proud chest as he walked towards Lenora offering his forearm. She took it and turned away from Edyweine, walking into the house without him.
Edyweine returned to the cart, both irritated and distraught. “I am to escort you to your rooms. Don’t forget your things.” Cyran and Gwenyre grabbed the bundles hidden beneath their feet and stepped down to follow him.
The feel of the ground beneath Gwenyre’s feet was very welcoming. Even in the low light, she could tell they were surrounded by plush grass that was clearly well taken care of. Not something she would have expected from a troll prison. Estate, she reminded herself in her mind. Repayment, not punishment. During the last leg of their journey, when she had awoken from a brief nap filled with anxiety over her situation, Cyran told her to think of it in these terms. “It will make it much easier – to see it like that. That is how trolls truly see it, as a way to repay their debts. Learn the troll ways, and maybe you will find solace there.” She wasn’t sure if that would ever happen, but she might as well try. At least in the beginning.
They made their way around the side of the castle, which took quite a while due to its sheer size. Gwenyre saw a servant’s door in the back, likely attached to a kitchen, and made her way to it without thinking. For the second time, Edyweine laughed at her ignorance. “No, no. We have further to go.” They continued past the house and the large yard behind it, past what appeared to be peaceful gardens and reflecting pools, towards a dense and dark forest in the back.
When they got to the edge of the trees, where the forest properly began, Gwenyre stopped again. She looked toward Edyweine, confused and slightly scared. There was no way he was going to make them enter there without any sort of light. While she was used to forests, her home of Ríhda mainly consisting of natural dwellings built into trees, she was wary of entering one so unfamiliar (and within troll territory) at night. Without a light, how would they know if there were any unsavory creatures or enemies lurking beneath the dark sky waiting for them? How would they be safe?
With no sympathy in his face, Edyweine shook his head slightly and edged her along into the dark woods. Within a few moments, however, she realized her fears were for naught. A few yards away lay a large building, constructed of wood and illuminated by some lanterns (though not as many as the front of the big house). There was even a rough path, likely made by the consistent trotting of feet over it rather than any deliberate effort, leading towards it that she hadn’t been able to notice under the low light. She and Cyran were edged along
by the other elf until they approached it.
“Alright,” Edyweine began with an impatient sigh. “These are your quarters. Men’s bunks are towards the left, women’s to the right. Good night, and goodbye.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, not even bothering to look back or make sure they made it inside. Gwenyre watched him as he left the edge of the forest, heading back towards the servant’s door and his life of luxury as a shamed elf. Cyran watched as her eyes glassed over with tears, and she wondered if it was better to be ashamed like him than where she was right now. The old elf then dropped his bundle to take a hold of her shoulders. “Don’t cry, little one. Don’t show weakness. Or sadness. Or anger. Be a rock.”
She nodded, trying to stop the tears that were welling up in her eyes. “I’ll try.” He tilted his head down and she felt him hesitate, as if he were going to pull her in for a hug. Instead, he awkwardly dropped his hands, picked up his bundle, and began making his way towards the door. Before he opened it, he added one other comment.
“You could run away. They probably wouldn’t care, to be honest. Trolls expect others to be willing and happy to pay their debts; it’s a part of their culture. That’s not the case for elves, and you aren’t exactly high profile enough for them to be angry. I won’t join you, but I also won’t give you up.”
She tried to hide her shock, which was easy in the dark. Running away was not even a thought that crossed her mind. Not because she thought she deserved this punishment, like a troll would. But like a true elf, she never backed down from a fight. She just couldn’t see herself giving up like that.