Gatehouse (The Gwenyre Caryra Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  GATEHOUSE

  BREE AGUIAR

  Copyright © 2021 Bree Aguiar

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798513595168

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To everyone who has supported my dreams, but more specifically to Nick and mom (sorry this isn't the detective novel I started in the fourth grade)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1 IMPRISONMENT

  2 THE COURT ROOM OF THE COUNCIL

  3 FATED BY PRIDE

  4 THE LONG JOURNEY

  5 THE ARRIVAL

  6 MEETING THE HIGH MASTER

  7 SETTING THE TABLE

  8 A SURPRISING HURT

  9 DINNER WITH COMPANY

  10 THE STABLES

  11 AN UNPLEASANT REQUEST

  12 THEORIZING

  13 PLANNED & UNPLANNED MEETINGS

  14 (SOME) GOOD NEWS

  15 AN UNFAIR PREDICAMENT

  16 HER FIRST LESSON

  17 THE TURNING

  18 AN ONGOING INVITATION

  19 A SHORT WINTER

  20 NOT ACCORDING TO PLAN

  21 A DISCOVERY

  22 A CONFRONTATION

  23 A SECOND CONFRONTATION

  24 A LONG WAY OUT

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1 IMPRISONMENT

  Gwenyre didn’t think twice about what she had done. In her own village of Ríhda, nobody would have batted an eye. But in the troll-run Newbridge, she was watched like a hawk. All of her kind were. Elves were thought not to be trusted; their quick feet and quick wit made them natural thieves, con-artists, criminals. The shorter the elf (and Gwenyre was shorter than most), the less they could be trusted. And her seemingly innocent actions, at least innocent from her perspective, were inexcusable in the eyes of Newbridge law.

  She tried defending herself, explaining that what she’d done wasn’t the heinous crime that the Newbridge patrols had made it out to be. But tensions between elves and trolls were at an all-time high, and nobody would listen. Like all elves, she was seen as trying to weasel her way out of a punishment she rightly deserved. A proper troll would have taken their punishment with honor, happy to serve their time. But elves were not trolls – far from it. Therefore, her punishment must be harsher; it was the only way she and her kind would learn.

  That was how Gwenyre found herself within the overcrowded prison cell at the start of her fiftieth Spring. She should’ve been back home, getting ready to celebrate the Cycle Day Festival. Instead, she was holed up here awaiting further punishment – a punishment that the troll guards had promised would curl the straightest of hair and grind the strongest of teeth.

  * * *

  “Alright you leaf lickers, time for your dinner.” The largest of the guards, Alzim, lumbered into the holding cell from the adjoining kitchen. Due to the small size of the prisoners, all of whom just happened to be elves, there was no fear that Alzim or the other guards might be attacked; one sweeping kick would’ve taken most of them down in a second and he wouldn’t let them forget that. The troll was balancing a tray in either of his overwhelming hands before uncouthly plopping them on the dirt floor. “A special Cycle Day feast for you all.”

  Sarcasm of course, as the “feast” consisted of the same meal they’d eaten every night since their imprisonment: a rather pungent stew of dark horse meat. While elves typically did not feel shame (it was not in their nature), the act of eating horse came close to producing this sentiment. Horses were meant to be their companions. To feast on one made Gwenyre and the others feel dirty, a fact the troll guards knew and relished in. Their whole purpose was to force shame upon these elves who believed they were above troll law. They would show them that there was a purpose to their shame – that this shame is what allowed them to rule in Newbridge and across the lands of the North. The elves with their pride may have thought they were superior, but the truth resided in the politics of it all.

  Gwenyre took her measly portions to the corner to eat. She usually ate alone, preferring silence over the companionship of the other captives. Most of their offenses were, in her opinion, much worse than her own. Her actions could’ve been chalked up to ignorance for Newbridge and its foreign ways. She was still a young elf, barely past her Marking Day that declared her coming of age. As such, she’d never been to the city before and didn’t think to heed the warnings of her parents who had forbidden her to go. How she wished she had listened. How she wished she was not born with a stubborn streak, like her mother. How she wished she was anywhere but there, between these cell walls in a cruel city far from home.

  The other captives, however, deserved it. At least in her opinion. On one of her first nights in the holding cell, they all listed their crimes: selling below-grade silver after proclaiming its legitimacy (“I swore it was real. The dwarves I bought it off gave me the papers that just happened to go missing!”); inciting a protest over new anti-elvish laws passed by the Troll King (“Well he deserves to be taken down a notch! All those nasty brutes do.”); owning an illegal dragonling (“I was just taking care of it for a friend!”); and even running an elven brothel without permits (“Couldn’t get the proper papers for it, seeing as how some of the elves were just fairies and genies in disguise.”). These were the lowest of her kind and she refused to associate with them. All she had done, as she explained on that particularly frigid night, was light her path. A trick she had learned as a youngling: creating a small fire in her palm that she could easily control. All elves had some level of magic, though Gwenyre seemed to have a knack for it more than most. That fateful night had been cold and dark, and she’d just wanted to find her way back to her inn. The fire was supposed to help. How was she to know it was frowned upon?

  “More than frowned upon sweetling,” Reiner, the silver con artist himself, guffawed. “Do you know nothing, girl? Unregulated fire in the streets, especially wielded by an elf, is forbidden in Newbridge.”

  “Fire is a troll’s worst enemy,” Yuna explained. “Though you’ll need more than just a palm’s worth to destroy one, they are deathly afraid of it. You have to have a special permit just to have a working fireplace in the city. Easier to come by than a brothel permit, mind you, but required, especially for us elves. Why do you think only trolls own the inns?”

  “You can’t have a proper inn without a proper fireplace to warm up at,” Alok piped up, a bit drunkenly. He’d been taken a few pints in, after bragging about how fast his dragon babe had been growing. (Serves him right for boasting, Gwenyre had thought to herself when she first learned of his crime.)

  “But it was so small!” Gwenyre defended herself meekly. “I may have more magic than most, but I can still barely get a flame to burn higher than my long finger. Surely they will understand the mistake?”

  The rebel rouser Cyran laughed darkly at her ignorance. “Trolls don’t understand anything, little one.” With his grey hair and leather face, Cyran was clearly an elder. Perhaps close to 400 years old and fighting for his fellow elves in the hard city. He’d been there when the
elves had ruled, when Newbridge was called Yána Marto and fires were allowed to blaze freely. Before the Fifth War and the Troll King’s rise to power. “A small fire means a small spark. A small spark against the Troll King. Heresy, treason, death. I wouldn’t even dare to bring an open pipe to my own protests. Too dangerous. You’re lucky that you’re too young to remember the wars. To smell the scorching troll skin. To see the innocents burn.”

  He said the last bit quietly, almost under his breath, but Gwenyre heard it; it was enough to make her shut up and shut down. Since then, she had barely said a word to the others. I will make them see proper justice. They’ll understand it was just a mistake – they have to! Trolls are stupid, but not that stupid. Cruel, but not that cruel. They must understand.

  Those thoughts continued for a week, as she and the others endured constant name-calling, berating, and horribly gamey horse stew brought by Alzim. Each day felt the same, but today promised to be different. It was finally Cycle Day. They will have mercy on me today of all days. The highest of feasts. I will explain myself, and they’ll understand. And then I will leave this place, this prison of a city, forever. I will go back to Ríhda and never return.

  She was brought out of these thoughts by a pronouncement from Alzim, exactly the declaration she was waiting for. “As I said, today is a special day – a Cycle Day to remember. You’ll get more than just your feastings here, leaf lickers. The City Council will be declaring your fates, so eat up. You’ll be transported in one hour.” With that, he stomped out of the cell with a sickly grin on his face, one that promised an eventful afternoon for him and his fellow guards.

  Gwenyre smiled, the excitement palpable on her face. She ate quickly, barely tasting the horrid meal. She needed time to prepare her defense, to find a way to beseech this Council to understand what had happened and why she deserved to be free. She would reason with them, make any promise she needed. She’d vow to never return, to never use her fire magic again, to never step within five hundred feet of another troll if she had to!

  The others were clearly not as excited as she; if anything, they looked glum. A wave of grey engulfed their faces as they slowly chewed their last meal. Well, it was not her problem. Whatever they did, whatever defense they had, whatever punishment they received was not for her to be bothered by. She could think only of herself and her final chance at freedom.

  The hour passed quickly, and Gwenyre felt more than ready. She had prepared her speech, one she thought was eloquent and logical. It would encourage reason from the Council so that she could be freed. As she was practicing it one last time in her head, Alzim returned with four other guards – one for each of them, as if that was needed. Alzim was almost triple her size, and double that of Cyran who was the largest of the elvish captives. But no matter, one last trip and that would be the last she’d ever have to see of him.

  The guards were rough, much rougher than they needed to be, snapping rusted chains on the prisoners’ wrists and pushing them roughly outside. After a week in their windowless cell, Gwenyre’s eyes burned at the bright sun. It was beautiful outside, surely a Cycle Day to remember as Alzim had promised, which she believed would bode her good fortune. She did not have long to enjoy it before she and the others were pushed into a transport. The cart was rickety and barely big enough for the five of them, never mind their colossal guards. The trolls fought among themselves over who would be allowed to attend to the Council. Alzim and one other, a particularly pustule-filled fellow named Yetu, won out. The two trolls entered first, the cart sagging under their weight as they took up most of the room with their legs spread wide. The prisoners were forced to squish uncomfortably together, almost sitting atop one another. It felt highly dishonorable, but Gwenyre didn’t even care. She knew this nightmare would soon be over and was willing to put up with this one last penance of a ride.

  It was a short one, thankfully. The transport cart pulled up to a ghastly-looking stone palace just a few blocks away within minutes. By that time, the cart was barely creaking along and Gwenyre was sure it was going to soon fall apart. In fact, as soon as Alzim and Yetu pulled Cyran out, one of the wheels disengaged and took off rolling down the street. “Blasted thing,” Alzim grumbled while struggling to count the five prisoners. “You’d think we’d get a better budget, taking care of the riff-raff that tries to ruin our good city. Instead we barely get paid and have to endure these unsafe working conditions!”

  “Right you are,” mirrored Yetu, who worshipped the dirt beneath Alzim’s monstrous feet. “We do all the hard work, and these criminals get better treatment than us!”

  “Well that will change today,” Alzim laughed darkly. “They had it easy in the holding cell. Their real punishments will be much, much worse than some rickety carts and badly made stew.” Still laughing, he gathered up the elves and pushed them into the building with the help of Yetu as Gwenyre spoke up with her nose in the air.

  “They will only be worse if we are sentenced. I’m sure that your Council will see reason and let me free. As I’ve told you, I’m innocent of all charges other than ignorance.”

  Alzim growled at her. He’d been subject to her haughty claims of innocence each day and they ground him to the core. Her incessancy enraged him; who did this pointy-eared, hard-faced brat think she was? That she could bring fire into the city – did she know nothing? Alzim had heard the stories of the Fifth War, had seen depictions of elves burning innocent troll villages laughing with evil filling their twisted faces. The troll wanted nothing more than to see her burn with the fire she conjured.

  “Shut up,” he barked at her. “You are nothing! Look around and see how small you are here. You don’t deserve to be in the presence of the Council, but they’ll see you and make you pay.”

  She paid no heed to his words. She never did; Alzim struck her as a simpleton and she cared not for his endless growling and huffing. However, she was quickly humbled into silence by her surroundings. Looking around, she did feel small. While the stone palace was not grandiose or elegant, it was colossal. Like most troll-built structures, it was purposeful rather than aesthetic in its design. A far cry from the elven architecture she was used to. There was no art or tapestries adorning the walls, no crystal chandeliers or flying buttresses above her head, no sense of warmth. Instead, she was surrounded by cold stones stacked together, larger than life, leading to various halls and rooms and, from the smell of it, kitchens. Around her were many different creatures roaming the halls, each with their own path and purpose. There were plenty of trolls, of course. Some larger than Alzim, others barely two feet taller than her. Some filled with pustules like Yetu, others smooth-faced. Some with beards and flowing hair, others balder than a newborn babe. But there were not just trolls; creatures of all kinds walked and flew along, from fairies to goblins to humans, and even a few dwarves.

  There was noticeably, however, only one other elf. There was no mistaking him despite his attempt to hide his ears beneath a pointed felt cap. The slope-nosed elf was sitting behind a carved stone desk that, from its size, was clearly not made for him. He looked like a child sitting in the matching chair, his feet dangling off the ground while he looked around nervously as if waiting for something. Alzim and Yetu dragged the prisoners towards his direction.

  When he noticed they were coming his way, the elf began to look even more panic-stricken, ducking beneath the desk quickly. This did not stop Alzim who continued to advance forward with that perpetual snarl on his face.

  “Hey, you there!”

  He walked forward, reaching over the desk and pulling the elf up by the lapel of his shirt. The boy was trembling – so much so that his hat fell off. Because of this, Gwenyre discovered a disturbing sight: his ears, naturally pointed as they were for all elves, were roughly shaven. The work was shoddy; it looked like chunks were just brutishly bitten out in an attempt to round his ears, leading to crude squares mismatched in their shape and size. Gwenyre had heard of elves doing this to themselves, especially in Newbr
idge; it was a fashion trend inspired by a desire to fit in. The pointier the ears, the more abuse an elf was likely to face in a troll-infested neighborhood. There were no two races that hated each other more than trolls and elves, and elves had lost the battle of the Fifth War. Better to look like a human than an elf. Better to fit in.

  Alzim plunked the elf with his shaven ears down in front of the desk. “You,” he addressed the boy. “We’re here for the City Council hearing.”

  If Alzim was expecting the elf’s quick assistance, he was sorely mistaken. “I’m not… it’s not… I don’t…” The boy trailed off, continuing to shake with nerves until Alzim roughly pulled the scruff of his collar again, lifting him close to his own face as his small feet dangled a few feet above the stone floor.

  “SPEAK, YOU IMBECILE,” Alzim commanded.

  The elf swallowed loudly, trying to calm himself. Finally, he answered slowly. “I am not sure where the Council is meeting. I’m just watching the desk for my mistress. She can tell you where they will be when she returns.”

  Never one for patience or understanding, especially when it came to elves, Alzim continued to yell. Others throughout the halls stopped to stare, though nobody spoke up to defend the shaven-eared elf. Why would they? “WELL WHEN WILL SHE BE BACK, YOU DOLT?”

  At that moment, a shorter troll decked out in a fine woolen shift and cloak, quite high fashion for the Newcastle government district, made her way over to the desk to address the large guard in an exasperated manner. “Alzim, what are you doing with my page?” She sounded more annoyed for the inconvenience than offended at the suffering the young elf was being subject to. Gwenyre had heard of pages before, basically personal secretaries for the rich and powerful. She’d never seen an elf page for a troll, though she had not grown up amidst many trolls in her elven village. Perhaps it was typical in Newcastle, though she shuddered slightly at how degrading it must have felt.