by Bree Aguiar
This was not a question that allowed her to remain quiet. “Ríhda.”
The man made a noise to contemplate her answer. “Ríhda? I’ve not heard of it…” He appeared deep in thought, as if trying to locate her little elven village on the map inside his head. She couldn’t help but notice how his eyes glossed over as he focused his mind; it was quite attractive to see someone deep in the throes of thought. Oblivious to her thoughts, he continued his questioning. “And where is that?”
She described its location as a week-long trek from Newbridge, just past the far bank of the River Yooda. His eyes brightened when he heard that, finally able to place it on that map in his mind. She thought he would have no more questions and hurried to finish off checking the saddle so she could move on. As she tried to step out of the stall, however, he beckoned her back. “Do you like horses? I think Kyndene here has taken a shine to you, which is rare. She barely likes me, and I’ve known her for years.” Gwenyre couldn’t help but smile meekly at that, responding a bit more openly than before.
“I have quite an affection for innocent and intelligent animals, like your Kyndene here. She is sweet, and clearly has smart tastes.” It was a jest, and probably a rude one, but she couldn’t help herself. And perhaps the man wouldn’t realize the true meaning behind her words.
He did, however, laughing loudly again and gaining a few looks from others posted throughout the Stables. Including a shocked stare from Ametrine, whose eyes showed a look of encouragement that made Gwenyre blanche. Ametrine clearly thought the elf was flirting and was egging her on! What a mess, Gwenyre thought to herself. I’d better get out of here quickly.
“If you’ll excuse me sir,” she said, trying to push past him to exit the stall. “Have safe travels home, and a happy Cycle Day to you.” She managed to open the door, leaving him alone with the bay as his voice called out one more question.
“What is your name, elf?”
She sighed before answering. “Gwenyre.” She refused to ask the man for his name, knowing it would just make the situation all the more unbearable.
“Well, Gwenyre, I’ll see you around. Perhaps next time, we can ride together. You can mount Kyndene; I’m sure she would love that.” He turned to his horse, no longer paying her any attention. The little elf couldn’t tell if she turned pale or bright red at his comment, but she did know that she didn’t want him (or Aimee) to see her face. She walked quickly into another stall to hide.
Ametrine didn’t appear to be aware of Gwen’s embarrassment, but if she was, she clearly didn’t care. The girl rushed over to the elf who was trying to make herself look busy. This was hard to do, however, seeing as how she’d entered an empty stall. Upon realizing her error, Gwenyre tried to escape, but not before Aimee had the chance to grab her arm and keep her back.
“Stay here,” she whispered. “Nora and Phillipe won’t notice if we’re hiding out for a minute!” Gwenyre ignored her, trying to push past on her way out. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Gwenyre lied. She actually wasn’t even sure what was wrong. Her encounter with the handsome man had left her feeling… Embarrassed? Agitated? Infatuated? She wasn’t even sure, but she knew she didn’t like it.
Ametrine saw right through the fib and crossed her arms to give Gwenyre a look full of daggers. “Don’t lie to me!” she said. “I saw you flirting with Lord Sampson! He’s quite handsome.” Lord Sampson, Gwenyre thought. Of course, he has such a regal name. Regal and arrogant. Like him. She rolled her eyes, trying to dispel her thoughts of the man as she formulated her response.
“I was not flirting,” she snapped. “I was attending to his horse.”
“Is that why I heard him say he wants to ride you?” the girl asked cheekily.
“What?!” Gwenyre said, scandalized. Ametrine laughed heartily at this, poking fun.
“Sorry, ride with you. Just a slip of the tongue.” The girl laughed again, finding the whole thing amusing. Which it was not. At least not to Gwenyre.
“Ha,” the elf said sarcastically. “Please drop it, Ametrine. I was not flirting with the man, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Sensing her friend’s desperation to stay silent, Ametrine lightened up. “My apologies, Gwen. Really,” she added, showing her sincerity. “Though we’re fast friends, I’m realizing we’re quite different. I’ll stop teasing you.” She smiled at the girl. “For now,” she added with a dirty smirk. Gwenyre couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Ametrine had a charm, even when she was being insufferable, and the elf couldn’t stay mad at her new friend.
“Thank you for understanding,” Gwenyre said, finishing the conversation. “Now, shouldn’t you be cleaning this stall? It’s rather smelly in here.” She gestured to the horse dung littering the back of the room, making Ametrine wince.
“God, I should’ve kept picking on you,” she said. “Maybe if I annoy you enough, you’ll do my work for me.”
Gwenyre laughed again, showing the girl there was no chance of that. She turned to leave the stall when she remembered something. “What time is it?”
“I’m not sure,” the girl answered, picking up the shovel laying against the wall. “You’d have to ask Master Phillipe, but I’d say a bit past two o’clock. Why?”
“Oh no!” Gwenyre didn’t have time to answer. She ran out of the stall, exiting the Stables as fast as she could. She rushed over to the big house, praying she wasn’t late for her second meeting with Master Gurney.
11 AN UNPLEASANT REQUEST
When Gwenyre arrived in the hallway past the kitchens, she was breathing heavily and holding a stitch in her side. She wasn’t sure how fast she’d run, but she hoped it was quick enough to ensure that she was not late. Unlike yesterday, however, Gurney was not waiting outside the door to the little room so she could not be sure. She paced around, trying to slow her fast beating heart as she waited for him. After a minute or so, she wondered if she should just go in. She could feel beads of sweat dripping slowly down her face, her anxiety rising with each passing moment that she sat outside of the door, unsure of what to do.
Ten torturous minutes later, the door to the room opened slowly with a loud creak from the hinges. Gurney walked out and made eye contact with her, giving a quick nod. Behind him emerged another figure she was not expecting: Sylvan.
“I see you are late,” Sylvan said before she could finish rising from her hurried curtsies. “See that she is punished for this, Gurney. An extra 50 lashes will do.”
If he was shocked by the suggestion, Gurney hid it well in his emotionless face. “Of course, High Master.” He turned to address the elf. “We will begin shortly, but High Master Sylvan has requested a few words with you. When you are finished, enter this chamber directly. No dawdling please, I have other things to do.” The short troll re-entered the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Gwenyre alone with Sylvan in the empty hall.
She felt her heartbeat quicken in her chest again as she looked towards the gigantic troll, but refused to look him directly in the eye. He turned his lips up in a sickly smile that brought a feeling of nausea to the girl.
“Good to see you again, Gwenyre Caryra.”
The sentiment was obviously not shared as she grasped at her stomach to keep herself from getting sick. She dared not say a word, fearful it would end in her vomiting from anxiety. He noticed this and laughed to himself, pleased that he could evoke this much fear. “I requested to speak with you because I have taken a… special interest in your case.” His emphasis was biting, full of mockery and disdain. She remained silent, not even capable of nodding her head. He continued on, ignoring her obvious fright. “I think someone like you would benefit from regular meetings with the High Warden. Seeing as how you will be with us for quite some time, you and I should get to know each other. How does that sound?”
He spoke as if he were asking her to afternoon tea, but Gwenyre knew that was likely far from the truth. She was unsure what these “meetings” he proposed consisted of
, but she prayed that they would not be extra lashings. Not after yesterday. He must have read this fear on her face and spoke up again.
“The meetings will be more… civilized than our encounter yesterday,” he explained. “Gurney will continue to be put in charge of your daily lessons; I merely hope to learn more about you and your background. Your work here at Gatehouse. Where you can be useful.” Upon hearing this, she slowly released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in. “Unless of course your actions warrant further repayment and teaching,” he added. “Miz Norethebo said you were amiable yesterday, but if that changes then I will personally show you the consequences.” Gwenyre silently thanked Norethebo upon hearing this, vowing to continue staying on the Miz’s good side.
“Well?” Sylvan asked. Gwenyre was not sure what she was to say. His requests were clearly not optional; to deny them would be a death sentence. But he was waiting, so she nodded her acquiescence.
“Good,” he said. “Once a week should suffice. Meet me in this hallway on Friday after your dinner service. Do not dawdle.” He turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Gwenyre a moment to calm herself before she entered the room where Gurney was waiting.
The other troll kept his emotionless stare as he directed her to the wall, her back to him. Before he could begin his switching, however, he inspected her shift. “Has the bleeding subsided?”
“I think so,” she said. She started to tell him about Wyndemere’s healing ointment before realizing such a thing could be contraband. She quickly recovered by changing the subject. “This is a new shift, and nobody commented on it being dirty.” The troll nodded slightly at this before telling the girl to relax.
“If you tense your muscles,” he explained in a bored voice, “it hurts more.” It was her turn to nod, though grimly compared to his emotionless void. She heard him remove the whip from his belt as she bit her lower lip, actively trying to relax her muscles.
The first lashes felt like… well, nothing. A slight pressure, a light touch, but not a stinging pain. The only reason she even knew that he was doing anything was the wind created from the flick of the whip, leading to a slight breeze. The strangest part was the lack of a pinpointed pain; the pressure was all over her back, rather than concentrated on one spot where the whip was hitting. She was confused at the difference from her encounter with Sylvan, but obviously grateful. So grateful she barely even registered the grumble coming from Gurney’s lips.
“Hmm…” A breeze as the whip flicked. “Hmmmm.” Another confused mumbling, this one even louder. Another breeze and then a barely audible exclamation. “How odd.”
“What?” she asked, turning her head to face him. This was probably not the best course of action; he could’ve hit her in the face, or just been angry that she addressed him in such an uncouth way, but she could not help herself. “What’s wrong?” she asked again when he didn’t answer.
He said nothing, instructing her instead to turn around and leave. “Perhaps you have paid this portion of your debt. Return tomorrow.” He gestured her out of her room, ignoring her protests and questions.
What was odd? she asked herself as she made her way back to the Stables. How did I pay my debt? And is he always that…gentle? Though it felt oxymoronic describing a beating as “gentle,” she could think of no other word for it. She would have to ask Cyran if they saw him at dinner; she prayed silently that they would.
She also planned to tell Ametrine and Wyndemere Sylvan’s strange request, reminding herself to promise them to keep quiet about it in front of Cyran. While the proposed meetings were not technically supposed to be a form of severe punishment, Gwenyre knew that the old elf would be concerned with the High Master’s “special interest.” She did not think, or at least she hoped, that whatever these meetings would entail would not be serious enough to force Cyran into trying to protect or avenge her. Keeping them from him, then, was for his own good – to make sure he didn’t overreact and get himself punished with a severe beating of his own. Or something even worse. She did not think Sylvan was above murder, especially the murder a troublesome inmate out for vengeance. She shivered at the thought as she arrived at the Stable entrance.
Gwenyre found Ametrine deep into her cleaning. It was clear that the girl was a procrastinator but when she did work, it was with her best efforts. The stall looked spotless; there was no sign that a grubby horse had spent the entire week there, eating, shedding, and pooping. Covered in dirt and sweat, Ametrine radiated her own brand of unique beauty. Gwenyre couldn’t help but feel in awe of the girl, who was able to make even manure duty look fabulous.
“Hello, my darling,” the girl greeted Gwenyre in her fake, high-born accent. “And how was thy daily fun with Sir Gurney?” She bowed low in jest, balancing herself against the wide broom in her hand. Without a word of greeting, the elf explained what had happened in hushed tones.
Upon hearing about her encounter with Sylvan, Ametrine’s eyes flared up in anger. Gwenyre could tell the girl had questions, but before she could voice them, the elf went into explaining her odd interaction with Gurney. Hearing this, Ametrine’s fury dissipated. She did not appear confused like Gwenyre thought she would, however. It turned out the girl had a theory.
“We’ll have to discuss with Wind and Cyran,” she said, her face blushing at the mere mention of the old elf’s name. “But I think it might be your magic!”
Gwenyre rolled her eyes to quickly dispel the thought. “There’s no way,” she said incredulously. “I’ve never been able to do anything like that. I don’t even know what that was. Master Gurney didn’t really explain. Maybe he was just… confused that it didn’t hurt?”
Now it was Ametrine’s turn to roll her eyes. “Confused that it didn’t hurt? Are you serious? I think the troll knows just how much he can hurt. Which can be pretty bad.” She looked at Gwen, and her eyes flashed when she realized what she said. “Not as bad as what happened to you, of course,” the girl added quickly. “But he usually isn’t one to be gentle as you described it. No-one here is. What would be the point?”
Gwenyre saw where the girl was coming from, but she still wouldn’t believe it. How could she have done magic, powerful magic like that, without even knowing? Ametrine would not let up; however, she had a new idea she wanted to test out. “Let me see your back,” she commanded. “Quickly!” Gwenyre turned around, voicing her doubt.
“There’s nothing to see, I’m wearing a clean shift and the bleeding stopped.”
“Obviously,” Ametrine said, dripping with sarcasm. “Let me look under your shift!”
Gwenyre pulled down on her gown, as if to stop the other girl from lifting it. She had a scandalized look in her as she chastised her for making such a suggestion. “Out in the open, for all to see?!” To this, Ametrine gestured to the empty stall they were camped out in.
“No-one is here, and I’ll be quick! Go into the corner, and I’ll block you.”
After a bit more back-and-forth, with Gwenyre trying but failing to convince the girl that this was madness, the elf finally relented. She made her way to the back corner of the stall, far away from prying eyes, and told the girl to be quick. “The sooner you realize your mad theory is wrong, the sooner we can drop this.”
Ametrine ignored this remark and quickly pulled back the neck of Gwenyre’s working shift, peering down her back. “I think…” she began, trying to find the words. Then, to herself this time, “there’s no way!”
“What?” Gwenyre asked, looking back at the girl. This was the second time today someone had made an incredible discovery behind her back, and she refused to not have answers this time.
“Hold on, I need a better look. Do you mind if I lift it?”
Gwenyre blushed with embarrassment. “Do you have to?” she asked. “I think you’ve seen enough!” She made to turn back around and leave the stall, but Aimee kept her where she was.
“I helped you get dressed yesterday and this’ll be even quicker than that,” the girl
promised. Gwenyre had no desire to continue arguing, and let Aimee look with the promise that she would do it fast. She felt cold air hit her legs and buttocks as the fabric lifted, and then felt it quickly fall back into place.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” the girl said, her low-born accent thick with the phrase. Gwenyre turned around to face her. “They’re gone,” she exclaimed in a not-so-quiet whisper. “All your cuts and bruises – absolutely vanished!”
Gwenyre didn’t think it was possible; she was sure she could still feel them. Although the pain had lessened quite a bit since this morning. She hadn’t felt any pain in a few hours, actually now that she thought about it. She shook her head, realizing why. “Wyndemere’s ointment,” she explained to Ametrine. “It must have just sped up the healing process, like you said. No big deal.” She tried to walk away, determined to forget about the mysterious incident and get back to work. She wasn’t even going to bother to tell Cyran; it was probably nothing. Maybe Gurney just accidentally broke his whip or something. No big mystery at all.
Ametrine was obviously not going to let her forget, however. “I’ve used that ointment too many times to count,” she explained in a low voice. “Wyndemere is good, but not that good. It can’t even heal a hickey in a day, never mind severe lacerations.” Gwenyre didn’t want to know how Ametrine knew about the ointment’s use on hickeys, but she didn’t ask. She just shook her head again, trying to convince the girl (and herself) that this was normal.
“And if it wasn’t the ointment…” she began her argument. “If it wasn’t that, then what healed me? And what does that have to do with my meeting with Gurney?”
Ametrine rolled her eyes at Gwenyre’s foolish ignorance. “I already told you,” she started. “Magic!”
No matter how many times she said it, however, Gwenyre refused to believe. “I’m telling you,” the girl continued on her tirade, her excitement palpable. “You must have healed yourself and put up some sort of… I don’t know… force field thingy when Gurney was trying to switch you.”