Gatehouse (The Gwenyre Caryra Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  “Lenora.” The large troll guard bowed to her while not-quite-gently placing the page back on the floor. The elf brushed his lapels in an effort to straighten them, reaching up to adjust his hat. Embarrassed when he noticed it was missing, he looked around quickly before locating it on the floor and shoving it back atop his blonde curls. Gwenyre tried not to stare at his blushing face; embarrassment was seldom felt for an elf and she felt a wave of nausea come over her. She attempted to focus on Alzim, who was blushing himself, though for a different reason – one that was likely inspired by the troll woman before him. The sight of it was a bit ghastly, as his normally grey cheeks turned a distressing shade of yellow. “How are you, darling? How is your mother?”

  “Oh, don’t try to sweet talk me,” Lenora snapped back, though not unkindly. “I am fine, and my mother is fine. As is my husband. But my page here looks worse for wear. I’m sure he’ll recover, however. Won’t you, Edyweine?” The young elf, Edyweine, nodded quickly. He looked down to focus on the papers and scrolls covering the desk, shuffling them in an effort to look busy. “So, what can we do for you Alzim? Another complaint at the old cellblock?”

  “Darling, you’ll hear no complaints from me.” He held a slight smile. “I am just here to bring these prisoners over to their Council hearing. Do you know where that might be?”

  With a pucker of annoyance on her face, Lenora started shuffling through the papers herself. After a moment, she seemed to find the right one. “Ah, that would be Court Room 213 in the West Wing. Edyweine can lead the way. Edyweine?”

  The page did not look happy, but he quietly cleared his throat, rolled back his shoulders, and stepped out from behind the desk. “Of course, mistress. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me?” And with that he took off, the guards and prisoners following shortly after.

  Gwenyre continued to look around as they were led through various hallways and courtyards. How this Edyweine knew where he was going was beyond her, as everything looked the same. Grey and stone and economic. Not at all like the beautiful structures she’d grown up in. “Doesn’t it ever get boring?” she asked herself, not realizing that she’d made the remark out loud. Thankfully, Alzim and Yetu were too busy arguing over Lenora’s apparent beauty to hear her, but not Edyweine. Apparently, the butchering of his ears did not affect their elfishly enhanced hearing.

  “Doesn’t what get boring?” he questioned.

  “This...” She gestured around her as well as she could with her chained wrists. “These walls, this grey, this star-forsaken city.” She sighed, wishing once again she could be back home and far from the city gates that surrounded them.

  “You must be new,” Edyweine smirked at her. Gone was his embarrassed, ruffled appearance. He stood up straighter, looking more like a real elf despite his horrid hat and ears. “It’s quite grey and degrading at times, but it can also be freeing. I can’t explain it, but I’d rather be mocked here than forced to live my life the way it was prescribed to me.”

  Gwenyre did not fully understand. The elven way was set and rigid, yes, but it was tradition. It was grand. It was… home. She tried voicing this to him, but Edyweine just laughed lightly at her remarks.

  “Ah, home. Where everyone is too proud to admit their wrongs. Where creatures are killed for looking at each other the wrong way, for saying the wrong thing. Where families break apart because nobody will apologize. That is not my home, not ever.”

  Gwenyre stayed silent. She had no rebuttal. She loved her village but recognized its faults. But where was the difference in Newcastle? She herself was arrested for simply performing an act she did almost every day at home, all because she was an elf. All because they hated her for her pointed ears and her family history. What was worse?

  “Ah, here we are!” Edyweine announced to the group. As he bent over to open the door, he leaned closer to say something only she could hear. “My advice, little elf? Swallow it. Admit you’re wrong and say sorry. Accept your punishment for whatever it was you did. They’ll not like it any other way.” With that, the prisoners were ushered into another large room. Edyweine turned on his heels and headed back towards Lenora, thinking about the little naïve elf he’d just encountered. She’d learn; all the elves in Newcastle did eventually.

  2 THE COURT ROOM OF THE COUNCIL

  Court Room 213, like the rest of the palace around them, was made of large, rough-cut stone. Unlike the entrance and other halls, however, it displayed art. Though not any art that Gwenyre thought a sensible creature would enjoy. One wall was adorned with an oversized portrait, likely goblin- or troll-made, depicting a bloody execution. A plaque that Gwenyre’s sharp eyes could read, even in the low light of the room, noted it was called The Trial of the Treasonous. A row of evil-looking creatures sat with their necks on the gallows, as the headsman approached them with his sharp scythe. There seemed to be one of each race, from elves to trolls to humans, and even a valkyrie. The painting seemed to show that justice would be served to all, although only the troll criminal looked pained. There were slight tears in his eyes, betraying a look of shame and guilt. Gwenyre couldn’t help but notice that the elf depicted looked eviler than the rest, with a sneer on its sharp face as if daring the headsman to do the deed. She shivered as she was pushed forward to approach the bench before her.

  In front of her was what she could only assume was the City Council. Like the painting, creatures of every kind seemed to make up this panel. However, there were more trolls than most, which made sense seeing how Newcastle was run by their kind. The others were likely just there for show, to indicate a semblance of diversity. There were, of course, no elves present on this particular body. As expected.

  “Approach,” a low voice growled. Gwenyre and the others looked towards the voice and saw perhaps the oldest troll they had ever seen. His leather face was greyer than even Cyran’s hair, and almost blended in with the walls behind him. Greased, white hair was tied back into a bun at the nape of his neck, and he wore a stole adorned with embroidered symbols along the front. Gwenyre could make out a hammer, an axe, a set of scales, and a sun, but the rest were foreign to her. She stepped forward, chin held high. Though she was scared, she was ready to defend herself.

  “We are here to dole out the payments for each of your transgressions. We will start with the Elder. Stand tall and tell us what you have to say.” Cyran stepped forward and turned his eyes away from the apparent leader, looking towards each council member. “I felt for my people, who have become slaves under these new laws. I used my voice to speak out for them. I did not mean to incite a rebellion, nor promote violence. However, I am guilty of breaking the law. I am deeply sorry for the shame this has brought upon the elvish community of Newcastle, and I will take whatever payment will be requested from me.” He stepped back, making eye contact with the leader once again, who grumbled under his breath.

  “Were you coached?” he asked. Gwenyre did not know what they were talking about, but she was shocked at Cyran. Admitting fault, and apologizing for standing up for his rights? While she did not agree with what he did, she didn’t think he would give up so easily. She didn’t have time to gawp at the events, however, before Cyran was able to respond.

  “No, your Most Honorable. I have lived in Newbridge since its creation and know the ways of honor and obligation.” Once again, the leader snorted and wrote something on the scroll in front of him. Then he looked deeply into Cyran’s eyes.

  “Five terms within Gatehouse, doing as is pleased by the leadership there. That is the payment for your level of treason. Does the Council accept?” The others around him nodded their consent. Cyran, seemingly grateful, bowed his head and stepped back. Gwenyre had no idea what any of that meant, but it was no matter. She was ready to fight for her case.

  Before she could, however, she had to sit through the trials of her fellow prisoners. Their pleas matched Cyran’s, with each elf admitting their guilt and apologizing. This shocked Gwenyre; the others had spent their time in the
holding cell proclaiming their innocence but were now willing to admit their wrongs. Their “payments,” which she assumed was just a fancy word for punishment, seemed to be lesser than Cyran’s though. A monetary penalty, watch-duty at the gate, clean-up at the city center; the elves seemed happy with their fates, thanking the Council at every step and promising to bring honor upon the city. Then came Gwenyre.

  “Stand tall, and tell us what you have to say,” came the deep voice.

  Gwenyre stepped forward, looking the old troll squarely in the eye as she began her preordained speech. “Good sir, and the rest of the Honorable Council, know this. I used what little magic I have on a cold and dark night to light my way. I am not from the city, you see, and did not realize the perception of my actions. I only came to the city for brief site-seeing after my Marking Day, to prove to my family and culture that I was no longer an ignorant child. I, however, was ignorant in your laws. This is all just a misunderstanding, and I promise to leave the city once I am freed from these chains never to return.”

  The room was silent, but it took a moment for Gwenyre to notice the looks on the faces surrounding her. Disgust and anger filled that of the trolls, while the other creatures, including her fellow elves, looked shocked. The leader in his high seat growled low at her, checking and the scroll in front of him.

  “You are… Gwenyre Caryra?” His bushy eyebrows lifted upon reading out her family name, though likely not out of confusion. He pronounced it correctly, which most trolls were loath to do.

  “Yes sir,” she responded.

  “Well, Miz Caryra, explain to me what you think this is. What do you believe these proceedings today are all about?” he asked her unkindly.

  Confusion once again filled her face. “A trial, your honorable,” she answered meekly. He began to bellow rough laughter in his low voice as the other councilmembers joined in. Alzim and Yetu added to the ugly cacophony. The elves behind her remained silent, with pleading looks taking over their expressions.

  “That is right,” he snarled deeply at her, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “A trial where you take a chance to repent and accept your payment. What did you think you would get out of that speech you just gave?”

  Anger filled her face when she realized what he had said. This was not a trial, not in the proper sense. She should have known that these dirty, shameful trolls would twist justice in any way they saw necessary. Unlike the civilized elves, these savages declared themselves judge, jury, and executioner. “I expected reason. I expected you to hear my case. I expected to be set free.” Now she was snarling, her pointed ears turning red hot with rage.

  Some of the councilmembers continued to laugh at her last statement, but the leader did not. The look on his face became silent and dark as he formulated his response. “We see reason,” he growled. “It is elves and their lack of shame that do not. For this, and for your lack of repentance, you are hereby sentenced to a most horrid repayment. A lifetime term within Gatehouse. Perhaps that will rehabilitate you. Perhaps that will teach you shame.” Anyone still laughing shut their mouths quickly. Gwenyre was about to voice her protest when the leader stood up and shuffled out the back of the room. The rest of the Council quickly followed, most avoiding her eye. Some of the non-troll creatures, mostly the humans and fairies, did give her a quick look of pity before rushing away. As the door slammed behind them, Gwenyre sank to her knees.

  3 FATED BY PRIDE

  How endless it all felt, the horror at what had just occurred. Gwenyre could not stand up, even with the support of the other elves behind her.

  “It will be alright, darling.”

  “Not to worry, little one.”

  “Gatehouse will care for you; they cannot be too harsh on a pretty one like yourself.”

  Cyran’s voice wasn’t among those offering their sympathy. He stared down at Gwenyre still kneeling on the floor, a hard and detached look in his dark eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. “Don’t fill her head with your lies,” he berated the others, not taking his eyes off of her own. His next words, spoken more softly, were for her ears only. “Gatehouse will not be easy. They will teach you, and harshly, but you will learn. Hopefully enough to call it home.” He sighed, softening the look in his eyes slightly. “Now stand up, girl. Before the others come.”

  She forced herself to slowly stand up and meet his gaze, nodding slightly. She felt cold all over, still in despair about what had just occurred. But she never thought for a second to blame herself. It was the fault of the Council, of this godforsaken city. Not her’s. Not a chance.

  She tried to refocus herself, thinking about what to do next, when she noticed that the five elves were left alone. She had seen the Council leave, but not the guards. Confused, she looked towards Cyran again. Just this morning, she felt nothing towards this dark, brooding elf other than a general detached contempt. Now she knew she would be relying on him more than she’d imagined. Sensing her question before she could even voice it, Cyran explained what was to occur next.

  “We will not be seeing Alzim and Yetu again. A small kindness that. I’ve never met a pair smellier than they. I don’t usually believe the preconceived notion that all trolls smell bad, but whoever came up with that must have spent an hour alone with those two.”

  She smiled slightly at his attempt to humor her. The others laughed out loud, but they had reason to. They were free. Not like her and Cyran. Not at all like them.

  Cyran continued his explanation. “We’ll be locked in here for the time being, but soon representatives will come for each of us, tell us what to do and where to go. They’ll be fairies, I suspect. Typically, they try to keep them in-species, but we all know how the trolls feel about our kind. Fairies will be close enough.”

  Gwenyre nodded, wondering how Cyran knew all of this. Perhaps he’d been through it before, had been relegated to this “Gatehouse” in the past. God, she didn’t even know what that place was. She asked him quietly enough so the others wouldn’t hear her ignorance. They’d seen enough of that today. Not hearing her questions, the other elves chattered among themselves, seemingly celebrating their soon-to-be freedom.

  His eyes widened slightly at her question, but he did not laugh at her. A small mercy. Though he could not hide the look of pity. “Gatehouse is… well, if you don’t know what it is, it’s hard to explain.”

  But he tried. From his explanation, she could equate it to a work-yard, an estate where prisoners could work to repay their debts to society. Depending on her assignment, which could change whenever they felt necessary to truly teach her, she could be making her “repayments” in a number of ways. “Typically, the hard labor is left to the men, though you can see a woman out in the Fields or the Smithy on any given day. Most of the time they are left in the House, doing whatever it is needs doing.” From what she could tell, Gatehouse was located well outside of the city.

  “But who owns it?” she asked.

  “Well, nobody does,” he explained. “I guess you could say the Troll King, but he doesn’t really live there. His favorites visit, though never for long. It’s run by the Masters and Mizzus who care for the estate and the guests, but even they aren’t employed there for very long. Except Sylvan. He’s been there since it first opened following the elven defeat in the Fifth War. Sylvan fancies himself the ‘High Warden’ there. Whatever he says goes.”

  The way Cyran’s eyes flashed showed Gwenyre that this Sylvan was someone he feared. “You’ve been there before,” she commented gently.

  Cyran’s face took on that hard look again. “Of course, I have. And it’s no picnic, not even for the women. Be expecting a beating once a day in your first few weeks. Months if you aren’t compliant. And anytime you blatantly disobey the rules that change according to Sylvan’s moods. If you thought Alzim was bad… Well, let’s just say you’ll be praying for his horse stew every night.”

  Gwenyre was not expecting that. Physical punishment, aside from execution, was unheard of in elf law. You
r body was a temple, and any corporal punishment was more degrading than… well, than eating horse stew. If Cyran noticed her shock and disgust, he plainly ignored it and continued on. “Gatehouse can become home,” he assured her. “There are goods and there are bads, but mostly it just becomes your life for the terms that you’re sentenced.”

  He continued his explanation slowly, addressing the look of confusion that flashed across her face. “A term is a rotation of all four seasons. But if you haven’t done enough work for each season then you’re expected to stay longer. That happened to me my first time; there was a drought, so the harvest was useless. I was expected to stay another year, though I guess that won’t matter for you.”

  The others were listening now, done with their celebratory chattering. “I’ve never heard of a lifetime term,” Reiner piped up.

  It was silent again, the others nodding their ascension. Even Cyran nodded, though he did speak up. “It is rare,” he explained. “I knew of one other life-timer from my few stints there: Gordoba Lei.” Gwenyre had never heard of him, but the others apparently had. Their faces were a mix of shock and pity upon hearing that name, Yuna shaking her head in ostensible sympathy.

  While she didn’t want to once again display her ignorance, Gwenyre just had to ask. “Who is that?”

  Alok explained this time, in his drunken sounding babble. “Gordoba was one of the leaders of the elven forces that tried to hold Newbridge until it finally fell in the War. They executed most of his subordinates, and we all thought he went the same way. It was only a legend that he was forced into Gatehouse. I figured it was just a bedtime story used to scare young elves into behaving well, or else they’d face the same fate as poor Gordoba.”

  Cyran laughed lightly. “Oh, not a story,” he assured. “Gordoba is there. He’s stuck inside doing impossible tasks, puzzles and riddles that he will never solve, subject to beatings once a week. Last I heard, he was confined to solitary for smiling too broadly at a guest. He’s a lovely elf, that one, despite his position. But he will never repent, which is why he continues to suffer. He is made of pride, which the trolls hate. Especially Sylvan.”