Gatehouse

by Bree Aguiar

  Her cell was the only one in this particular room, but she knew there were others. She’d passed them on her way in, with Sylvan pulling on her chains with more force than necessary. Remembering this, she grabbed at her wrist, feeling the phantom bruises. She’d healed them as soon as she could, but she’d always remember that feeling. The rough pull as he cruelly twisted her wrists, her crying out for him to stop, and the small, weakened voice coming from a corner cell. “It’ll be alright,” it said, though without much hope.

  “Shut up Gordoba, you swine!” Sylvan yelled at the voice. She heard the voice’s owner scuttle to the back of the room from which it came. She was pushed into a one-celled room in the furthest corner from there and hadn’t heard the voice since.

  Left alone for most of the day, she’d tried to practice her magic in the hopes of getting out. But her power was not strong enough for the thick steel bars made to hold trolls and giants and the like; she was barely able to make a dent, let alone destroy them. The walls were no easier to manipulate, they were thick and likely fortified. She couldn’t even widen the small crack just above her bed with her power. Trying to push her magic exhausted her, and with nothing to show for her effort she eventually had to give up. Underfed, overtired, and lonely, Gwenyre felt broken. She prepared herself for the end, hoping it would be quicker than her long days alone in this prison.

  Pangs of sadness filled her days as she thought about everything. Sampson wanting to protect her, but still unable to profess his love. Her friends, sacrificing their safety to find a way to her freedom, now for nothing. Edyweine, lost and alone now without his mistress. And of course, Lenora. Dead. She tried to hold her tears back, but when she thought of Lenora’s kind soul gone from this world, she couldn’t stop them from freely flowing. She was supposed to carry on the woman’s legacy, but instead would be executed for her murder. A murder she wasn’t even sure was real.

  She tried not to think about the troll’s sickness. Had she, through no fault of her own, been poisoning the tea? Or had the woman truly just succumbed to a sickness that spread over time? Her growing weakness was clear the more Gwenyre visited her, but she prayed that it had just been an unfortunate happenstance that her natural death had allowed Sylvan to play out this sick game of revenge. She didn’t think she could bear it if someone really had planned the woman’s murder as a tool for her own destruction. Even though it wouldn’t have been her fault, Gwenyre knew that she would only blame herself.

  Though the loneliness of her thoughts was almost unbearable, Gwenyre would take that any day over the daily visits from Sylvan. The vile troll would bring her dinner, usually a revolting concoction of small portions that she would devour despite her disgust, and gloat about his victory. Each day, he opened up more to her, telling her about his hatred of her family name, the death and destruction they had brought about, and the pride he had at utterly destroying the Caryra’s through her murder. She tried to shut out his voice whenever he would tell the horrifying stories of trolls being killed in battle by her family’s magical abilities, wishing she could take it all back. She still knew next to nothing about the events outside of what she’d heard from others, so when Sylvan mentioned the names of these apparent battle leaders, she almost threw up.

  “Regina and Caridin Caryra?!” she exclaimed incredulously. This was the first time she’d said anything during one of Sylvan’s visits, and her outburst brought out a sick smirk on his revolting face.

  “Yes, the foulest of the elves. The fiends with little disregard for life, set in their attempts to destroy the great troll kingdom. The cowards who ran from being captured, letting their forces be slaughtered. What I would pay to see them utterly destroyed. But I guess I’ll have to settle for you.”

  Regina and Caridin. Blood spillers. Cowardly deserters. War criminals. Her parents.

  She kept her mouth shut after that, once again trying to drown out his stories of their destruction. Her parents consumed her thoughts. Her sweet, kind parents, cutting trolls in half with their omnipotence. The two who had cared most for her, who had taught her love and laughter and kindness, sending innocent civilians to their deaths by toppling troll fortresses and cities. The elves which had given her her ears, her eyes, her temper… She couldn’t believe it. But the more he talked about it, the more real it became.

  She began to see herself through Sylvan’s eyes and understood his hatred. His cruelty. His pain. His grief. If destroying her would hurt the two who had cut down his brother before his own eyes, then she didn’t think she could blame him for his actions. She knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, that if she had a chance to get revenge on someone who would hurt Ametrine or Sampson or Wyndemere, she would take it. Realizing this was part of what led to her breaking, her submission to her inevitable death. Now, she was just waiting for that death to come.

  And wait she did. For seven days. She marked each sunset, barely visible from the small window at the very top of her cell, with a scratch on the wall. She knew it would be soon, now. Seven days. Seven scratches. Seven sunsets. And seven raps on the door.

  Coming out of her stupor, she realized what she’d heard. Raps on the door to the room which her cell occupied. She looked towards it, wondering what it could be. It was past twilight, and Sylvan had already been by with her dinner and daily torture. And he never knocked. None of the guards did. There was no need to, they could walk right in and know they’d be safe with her behind bars.

  The rapping continued for a bit, and she opened her mouth. “Come in,” she called out in a confused voice. It was the first time she’d spoken in days, and her voice warbled with unused weakness. She had no idea if inviting whoever it was in, if there actually was anyone and it wasn’t just a figment of her broken mind, was a good idea but she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Well, we’re trying,” a familiar voice whispered back from behind the door. “This lock pick is horrible.”

  “Ametrine!” Gwenyre ran the bars of her cell, grabbing onto them and looking at the door across the way.

  “Of course it’s me,” the girl called out. “But keep your voice down, we knocked out the guards in here, but we aren’t sure if there are more roaming around.” Gwenyre smiled, her lips cracking with the dryness. The girl continued her hurried whispers. “Do you think you could, I don’t know, magic the door open?”

  Gwenyre tried, but she was too weak, and the door was too far away for the flows of her magic to reach it. She explained this meekly to the girl, which earned a sigh from another voice. “Oh, move,” it called out. “Do I have to do everything? I told you to use the long pin, Aimee.”

  “Well then why didn’t you stop me, Wind? You sat here and let me play around like an idiot for five whole minutes!”

  “Would you two be quiet?” another, gruffer voice piped up. “You could wake the dead with your arguing, and the guards we knocked out aren’t quite dead. Yet.”

  “Cyran!” Gwenyre cried out. “And Wyndemere! What are you all doing here?”

  The only answer she got was a shush from Cyran. “Just a moment,” Wind promised, back to their whispers. After an eternity, the door swung open and her friends came in the room.

  Gwenyre tried to hug them from behind the bars, the cold steel pushing against her rib cage as she squeezed tight to each one of them. “This,” Ametrine said, pointing towards the cell bars, “could be a problem.”

  Wyndemere rolled her eyes, holding up her hair pin. “This’ll have to do. But next time we decide to break someone free, we should probably have a better plan for the distribution of resources.” Gwenyre had no idea what the nymph was talking about, but she was too grateful and shocked by what was happening to care. While Wind bent over to work on the lock, grumbling at its more complex mechanisms, Cyran went back into the main room to watch over the knocked-out guards. Ametrine, pretty much useless while they worked, updated Gwenyre on everything that happened in the last week.

  “Lenora’s husband finally showed up to
plan the services and was calling for your head.” Gwenyre grimaced at that, knowing the grief the man felt and understanding his desire for revenge. “Your good Lord Sampson tried to tell him the truth, and basically called him a prat in front of all the other guests. That led to an all-out brawl between the guests, which then led to one between the servants too. Turns out a lot of people here actually liked you and knew you couldn’t have done that. The Protectorate had to quash a bunch of uprisings calling for you to be set free. Most of them started by Cyran and yours truly.”

  “Which got everyone in quite a bit of hot water,” Wind popped up, her voice low as she tried concentrating on the lock. “You forgot one important little tidbit,” she reminded Ametrine with a grumble.

  “Oh, that… Yeah, Cyran and I may have had our sentences extended for quite a bit. But no big deal!”

  Gwenyre groaned. “Aimee! For how long?”

  The girl gave a tight grin before responding. “For life.” Gwenyre opened her mouth to tell her that they’d been stupid to get themselves into trouble over her when Ametrine piped up again. “But we figured if we got you out from a death sentence, we deserved a nice vacation too. One far, far away from this place.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Gwenyre asked. “Once Wind gets this door open, how are four of us going to sneak out of this place on foot, undetected? I’m sure Sylvan has guards posted everywhere now to stop these little rebellions you fools have been starting. This was a bad idea; you should’ve just left me here to die.”

  “Oh, come off it!” Ametrine scolded her. “You know we weren’t going to do that. Plus, it’s just three. Wind is going to stay.”

  Gwenyre turned to Wind, whose eyes flashed with guilt as she continued to work on the lock. “I’m sorry,” she explained, not looking into the elf’s eyes. “I only have a few months left of my last sentence term, and I can’t be on the run. I need to get back to my family, and I can’t do that as a fugitive. I’m a coward, and a horrible friend.” Gwenyre leaned close to her, sticking her hand out of the bars to touch her friend’s shoulder with comfort.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said gently. “You’re the only one of these three with a right mind, clearly.” Wind laughed at that, but the guilt remained in her eyes. “Really, Wyndemere. I understand. You’re doing enough. More than enough. You shouldn’t even be risking yourself like this.”

  The guilt left the nymph’s eyes as she turned to face Gwenyre. “I needed to. You’re a friend, Gwen. You don’t deserve to die at the hands of that horrid troll. I’m glad I could help, even in my own little way.” With that, she reached up to the lock and pulled it off. “Yes!” she celebrated, smiling as she pulled the door open. Gwenyre hugged her first, tears once again streaming down her face.

  “Are you three okay in there?” Cyran called out from the other room. “I think one of these guys is getting close to waking up,” he warned.

  Gwenyre, still hugging Wyndemere, pulled back, holding tight onto her friend’s shoulders. “You go. The further you are from us when we try to get out, the safer you’ll be.” Wyndemere nodded, though Gwen could see her eyes watering. The nymph ran to the door to go, but turned back quickly

  “Wait, I almost forgot!” She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Lenora’s locket. She handed it to Gwenyre, smiling. “I nicked this off of Sylvan when he was escorting you out. I think he just assumed he lost it since then. I figured you’d want it back.”

  Ametrine, who had no idea that Wind had the necklace, looked at her friend with happy shock. “Sticky fingers!” she exclaimed. She hugged the girl, saying her own goodbyes.

  “I love you guys,” Wind called out as she snuck quickly out of the dungeon prison, promising that she’d find them once she was released. Gwenyre longed for that day, but she knew they had to focus on the task at hand.

  They gathered up Cyran, who had just re-punched one of the slowly waking guard to keep him down. “Should we do anything about him?” Gwenyre pointed to the cell room she’d heard Gordoba’s voice coming from just the week before.

  “Oh, they moved him already,” Cyran explained. “I saw them transporting him the day after they took you in. Probably wanted to keep two dangerous elves apart. He’s back to being caged up in Sylvan’s office.”

  Gwenyre nodded as the three slowly made their way up out of the dungeons. Slowly because, as Cyran explained, they needed allow Wyndemere time to put distance between them, lessening the likelihood that she would be caught. While waiting, Ametrine told them more of their plan.

  “We won’t be on foot,” she explained, calming Gwenyre’s anxieties. “We have horses and a place to go. But we have to be quick. On our way here, after we separated, we heard some fighting. We think it ended alright. But the quicker we get to the horses, the better. We have a route planned, one where there isn’t likely to be guards, but it’s a long one. So I hope you got enough sleep last night.” Even if she hadn’t, Gwenyre knew she could stay awake for this: To get her friends out and find her way to freedom.

  When Cyran determined that enough time had passed to keep Wind out of harm’s way, he let them move quicker up the long dungeon staircase. He went first, looking every which way to make sure the coast was clear before calling them along. The night was dark, which was a blessing. Most of the snow that had been on the ground just last week had melted with the quickly approaching spring weather, meaning that the three didn’t need to cover their tracks. It made their trek fast, allowing Gwenyre to realize that her hopes of escaping were finally coming true.

  They dodged through trees and wooded lands on the outer edge of the forest, led by Cyran who seemed to know exactly where they were going. Gwenyre’s legs, unused for the past week, began to cramp but she pushed herself to keep up. Finally, she heard a light whinny come from behind a set of trees as they approached two horses. She recognized one, a kind looking bay mare, along with the tall figure that held its reigns.

  She ran to Sampson as quickly as she could, not even thinking as she jumped into his arms. They embraced for a long time, and he held onto her tightly. They kissed quickly and repeatedly, knowing Ametrine and Cyran were behind them – one turning away and the other watching with waggling eyebrows. In between breaths, Gwenyre could see concern on the man’s face. “I’m here,” she assured him quietly so the others wouldn’t hear as he set her down gently. “I’m here and I’m okay. We’re okay.”

  “I know,” he said in a whisper as he pulled back from her, his hands tangled in her hair. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if…” His voice trailed off as he avoided speaking his fears aloud. “Without telling you,” he continued, finding a new path to take for his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, Gwenyre.” He finally apologized for the first time, which would have been a shock to the little elf if the whole situation were not shocking enough. “I’m sorry for every stupid thing I said. Every ignorant thing I did. I care for you more than you know, and it… it scared me. I was an idiot, trying to push you away with my incessant need to be the picture of a cool and powerful lord. Please forgive me. And know I’ll be better. I’ll get you out of here, get all of us out of here, and be the man I’ve been aching to become: the good man. For you, Gwenyre.”

  Gwen stared into his deep eyes. “I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself. Though…” she added as she played with his buttons, searching for a way to lighten the dark clouds that had surrounded them. “I wouldn’t mind if you got rid of all that hair.”

  He laughed as he pulled her in for another hug. “You’re quite a lot to handle.” She held on tight, wanting to stay like this forever, when she heard a light cough coming from Ametrine behind them, made in an effort to get their attention.

  “I thought you said there were only three of us,” she said to Ametrine after the man let her go gently.

  “Well I didn’t want to give away the secret,” she explained. “It was all his plan, though he probably should’ve been th
e one to break you out. Wind’s a good lock pick, but I think magic would’ve helped a little more.”

  Gwenyre turned to Sampson, her eyes widening when she realized that her friends knew his secret. He grabbed onto her shoulder lightly, letting her know not to be concerned.

  “It turns out your friend is smarter than she looks; she figured it out when I tried to blast Sylvan in the hallway the day he took you.”

  “God, I wish you had,” Ametrine retorted. “I’d have loved to see him utterly destroyed.”

  “We all would’ve,” Cyran added. “But I don’t think now is the time to reminisce. I suggest we get on our way.”

  Sampson agreed. “I had some trouble with a few of the Protectorate when you three were on your way to the dungeons. I was able to get most of them down, but I think I saw one get away. Probably on their way to get reinforcements. We should go.”

  He handed Gwenyre his finely made cloak, pulling it around her to keep her warm. He mounted Kyndene and pulled Gwenyre on the saddle behind him, while Cyran and Aimee did the same on the other mare. Kicking his heels, Sampson led the horses deeper into the forest.

  The path was clear for a while, and Gwenyre held onto the man tight. The events of the last hour had unfolded so quickly and perfectly, that she couldn’t believe that she had resigned herself to die just moments before. Grateful that she had held on, and that her friends had come for her, she squeezed him tight. He turned his head to give her a quick peck on her forehead when they heard the noises.