Gatehouse

by Bree Aguiar

  “I’ve never heard of an elf being able to do a force field thingy,” Gwenyre said dripping with doubt. “A witch, sure. At least a powerful one. But not an untrained elf with barely enough magic to levitate a bucket.”

  “But you are powerful, surely. Or you wouldn’t have been able to conjure fire in your hands or make it rain on command.”

  “A slight spray over one spot, not rain,” Gwenyre protested. The girl was really out of her mind, thinking she understood elven magic. Not even elves really understood it – who had it, what they can do, their limitations. It was a minor convenience for those who had a bit of extra power, like her. It was not something that could keep her from physical pain or save her life. There was no way.

  Ametrine was not hearing Gwen’s protests, but knew the elf was done arguing. “Fine,” she said, finally giving up much to Gwenyre’s relief. “But I am telling Cyran my theory and I think he’ll agree with me.” Gwenyre rolled her eyes once again, wondering how many times a day her pupils would reach the back of her head during her friendship with this girl. She agreed with her, however, if only to get her to shut up. “But don’t tell him about Sylvan,” she reminded her. “I don’t want him to do anything rash.”

  That brought up an entirely different conversation. While Ametrine agreed it was best not to tell Cyran, at least until they knew more about what he was up to, she wanted to know more about his supposed “special interest” in the elf. “Not that you’re not interesting or anything,” Ametrine assured her. “But I mean, I’m pretty interesting too and he’s never even looked my way except to tell me to move.”

  Gwenyre honestly had no idea what it was but said she didn’t want to talk about it. At least not right now. “We can discuss it more when we tell Wyndemere,” she said in an attempt to bugger the girl off. “I just want to relax a bit and take care of the horses.”

  Ametrine didn’t understand how Gwen could relax around horses, seeing as how she was equal parts disgusted and scared by the creatures, but she agreed. She also gave a slight apology for her incessant nagging. “Just part of my nature,” she explained. “But I do it out of love.” Gwenyre smiled at that, not doubting it for a second. She could tell Ametrine was a good friend who just wanted to help her. Accepting the girl’s apology, Gwenyre promised they would talk more later. With that, she left the girl to her own devices, hoping that her time with the horses would ease the growing aches in her head.

  12 THEORIZING

  An hour before their dinner service, Master Phillipe dismissed the girls. All of the travelers who were setting out today had already departed and there was nothing left for them to do. “Enjoy the night,” he wished. “And good job today, Gwenyre. You have a real way with the animals. I hope to work with you again.”

  Gwenyre smiled and thanked him for his kind words as they departed for the Dwelling, Ametrine with a pout on her face. “He didn’t say anything nice to me,” she whined.

  “He let you do nothing most of the day!” Gwenyre teased.

  “True,” Ametrine said, a smile growing on her face again. “Plus, I met a few eligible bachelors and bachelorettes! One of them even told me to find him when I get out of here. Not that I would, of course. His teeth were quite large; it was rather off putting.” She faked a shiver at the thought, and it took her a minute to notice the look of melancholy growing on Gwenyre’s face.

  “Oh dear,” she said, realizing that she stuck her foot in her mouth by mentioning her eventual freedom. “I’m sure you’ll get out of here too, there’s no way they can keep you here for your whole life no matter what they say. I mean, elves live forever so they’ll get sick of you eventually. Even Phillipe won’t want to deal with you for another 500 years.” Gwenyre knew her jokes were just to lighten the mood, but nothing could light the despair that grew in her heart when she thought about her future at Gatehouse. Not wanting to make the girl feel bad, however, she plastered a smile on her face.

  “That’s the spirit,” Ametrine said with relief. “And let’s be honest, if I ever get out of here, they’ll probably just throw me back in anyway. The real world can’t handle me, and Gatehouse just loves me too much.”

  Gwenyre let out a real laugh at that, admiring the girl’s wit and confidence. “Are you always this modest?” she asked Aimee, to which she received an exaggerated nod and a sly wink. Gwen laughed heartily as she reached for the girl’s hand as they finished their walk to the Dwelling together, arm-in-arm.

  When they arrived, they found Wyndemere laying prostrate on her bed, a damp cloth over her forehead. Ametrine ran to her to ask what was wrong, her voice full of concern.

  “Nothing really,” the nymph explained in a tired voice. “Jura just dropped a brass pot from the top shelf right as I was walking under her. It hurt like a beast, and Miz Kalina let me go early to nurse my headache. It feels better now, but I didn’t want to go back to work. I figured I’d hide out here until dinner.”

  Ametrine lightly smacked her friend’s arm, annoyed that she had caused her such concern. “Well good thing you’re here anyway,” she said with relief. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “This is why I hate when you don’t get House Service,” the nymph whined. “I miss everything good. Tell me, what is it?”

  Ametrine deferred to Gwenyre, who began with her encounter with Sylvan. “That bastard,” came Wind’s automatic response. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to meet with him privately? Maybe you should tell Miz Norethebo, just in case. Or even Cyran. You never know what brutish ideas will enter that big troll head.” Gwenyre shook her head fiercely and asked Wind to promise to keep quiet about this.

  “Cyran might do something harsh; he looked ready to kill last night when I mentioned Sylvan. We can’t risk him doing something dangerous over what could be nothing.” Wyndemere agreed against her better judgment but did suggest telling Norethebo again. Gwenyre thought about it and decided that the Miz was probably already made aware. Whining to her might just have its own negative consequences, especially if it got back to Sylvan. She did promise that if the meetings ever turned sour, she’d go to Norethebo right away.

  “But that’s not even all,” Ametrine piped up after staying silent for quite some time; it was rare for the girl to keep her mouth shut for more than five minutes. “Gwenyre used magic!”

  Wyndemere’s eyes lit up with a mix of admiration, excitement, and just a tinge of jealousy. “And I missed it?! What happened? Tell me!”

  Gwenyre gave Ametrine a sharp look, harsh enough for even Wind to see. “What?” the nymph asked, sensing the tension. “Am I missing something?”

  Sighing, the elf told the story of her encounter with Gurney – the pressure, the lack of pain, and his audible confusion during their meeting. “Plus,” Ametrine piped up again. “Her back is completely healed. Overnight! Magic!”

  Wyndemere was not as convinced as the human had been, much to Gwenyre’s delight and Ametrine’s chagrin. “Maybe it was my ointment?” she reasoned.

  “Please,” Ametrine spit back. “Your ointment couldn’t even fix the bite from Jeleel for a full four days, and that was barely a nibble!” Gwenyre did not want to know who Jeleel was or why they had nibbled Ametrine… or where for that matter. Wind laughed at her own memories while trying to come up with other solutions.

  “Maybe elves just heal faster?” she suggested. The other girls hadn’t heard this, not even Gwenyre who’d been an elf her whole life. She hoped, however, that it was true.

  “But what about the lashing?” Aimee challenged. “She felt nothing! I think she created a barrier or something to stop it; it’s the only explanation.”

  “There are plenty of explanations,” Gwenyre groaned. “We don’t really know what happened, and you weren’t even there to see it.”

  Huffing at the girl’s ignorance, Ametrine crossed her arms. “Why can’t the two of you just admit that it might have been magic?”

  Sighing, Wyndemere admitted that it was a possibility. “I’ve just ne
ver heard of someone doing magic without trying. Or even knowing. But it could be possible. Maybe Cyran knows more?”

  Grinning with satisfaction at her win, Ametrine turned to face Gwenyre. “See? Even Wind thinks it’s possible, and she’s the logical one.” Wind blushed at this characterization, clearly proud of her rational mind. Gwenyre tried to hold back her grimace, reminding herself that Wyndemere only said it could have been possible. Not that it was actually true. She held onto the hope that Ametrine was wrong – she hadn’t used a power she wasn’t even aware of.

  While Wind and Aimee turned to talk about other events of their respective days, Gwenyre thought hard to herself. She wasn’t sure why she was so against the idea that she had produced magic. Other than the fact that it couldn’t possibly be true… But her fears lay in the fact that it might have been. Why was that? What was it about using this power, having it inside of her, that scared her so much?

  Was it maybe that she didn’t even know it existed and that she had used it unconsciously? Maybe a fear of using a power without knowing, without considering the consequences, scared her. Or was it maybe just because it made her different? Magic was never seen as a negative thing in the elven community. For other societies, a fear of that seemingly infallible power permeated throughout; magic was never forbidden, but it was frowned upon. Trolls didn’t care so much, nor did nymphs and elves... But other creatures, like humans… their kind were either fascinated by it, like Ametrine, or terrified. But growing up with elves and their limited magic had made Gwenyre neutral to the idea. It was just another talent for her, like being able to whistle or wiggle your ears. But her fear might’ve been because it was stronger. Because it was different. Because other elves might learn to fear the power if she had too much of it.

  She tried to shake this feeling, turning her attention away from her inner anxieties when she heard Ametrine tell the nymph about her encounter with the Lord Sampson. “He was totally besotted by her; it was actually quite romantic to watch.” Gwenyre felt her face flush, heat rising in her cheeks out of both anger and embarrassment.

  “We were not flirting, and the man certainly had no feelings towards me, Aimee!” Gwenyre’s ears started to shake from anger, her temper rising quickly as it was wont to do. She really liked the girl, but she was proving herself to be quite a pain in the behind. “Why are you such a gossip?”

  The girl laughed at Gwenyre’s commentary, clearly delighted that she had agitated the elf into embarrassment. “My love,” she addressed her gently, her voice continuing its teasing tone. “There was no other way to describe it. I saw the way he was looking at you; you just didn’t notice because you were giving those same eyes to his horse!” She laughed at that, with Wyndemere joining in. Gwenyre kept quiet, chewing on her lip in an effort to keep her mouth shut until she could formulate a witty response.

  She came up with nothing but could not sit there silently while they laughed at her expense. “I’ll be heading to dinner,” she proclaimed. “Where I refuse to talk any more about this Lord Sampson and his bleeding horse.” She turned on her heel and made her way to the door when Ametrine called her back.

  “Dinner’s not for another hour,” she called out in a sing-song voice. “You’ll just be sitting there alone. C’mon back, we’ll stop teasing.” Gwenyre didn’t believe her, but the girl’s tone did show that she was going to at least try and make a concerted effort to be civil. The elf relented, huffing her way back to the girls with a sour look upon her face.

  Wind squeezed her shoulders when she got close. “Don’t let it bother you,” she said in a low voice that Ametrine’s human ears couldn’t pick up; the girl was too distracted to notice they were talking about her, fixing her shift and mumbling about how they never gave her anything decent to wear. “Ametrine teases out of love and assumes that everyone’s as big a flirt as her.”

  “Well I’m certainly not,” Gwenyre replied, mildly scandalized by that thought. “I get horribly embarrassed by that sort of attention,” she explained. Wyndemere nodded her understanding, empathizing with the elf.

  “I think Aimee might just be a little jealous,” she said with a slight smile on her face. “God knows she’s been trying to chat up Lord Sampson and his brother for ages. They’re frequent visitors and I’ve seen her around him: twirling her hair, laughing at everything he says. They both want nothing to do with it usually. But she means well. She considers you a good friend already.”

  Gwenyre could not stay mad once she heard that. Not having many companions growing up, she didn’t know how proper friends were supposed to act. And only growing up around elves, she certainly didn’t know if human friends were any different. But Ametrine and Wyndemere clearly wanted her friendship. In the very short time she’d known them, they had sympathized with her, tried to protect her, and made her laugh more than she ever thought she could in a place like Gatehouse. Because of this, she’d give Ametrine a free pass for her teasing. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hit the girl back.

  She told Wyndemere as much, which earned a hearty laugh. “Please do,” she urged, her voice now above a whisper. “That girl is so confident; she’d never expect it. It’d be nice to deflate her big head just a little.”

  “I heard that!” Ametrine said, looking up from her shift.

  “Of course you did,” Gwenyre fired. “With those big ears of yours!” She smiled to show she was obviously teasing, seeing as how Ametrine’s ears were actually quite small for a human.

  The girl covered them quickly with her hands, her mouth forming an offended o-shape. “I’ll have you know, I got these ears from my mother and she was the town beauty!” Gwenyre and Wyndemere laughed, and the girls continued to chatter until they had to head to dinner, the previous tension in the room dissipating quickly.

  * * *

  When it was time for dinner service, the girls made their way to the Mess Hall with good moods evident on their faces. “I hope we see Cyran,” Ametrine mumbled when they arrived in the crowded room. She stood on her tiptoes and looked for him at the many tables in the center of the room.

  “Why, so you can make those googly eyes at him again?” Wyndemere said with a smirk. This earned her a push from the human, whose face went bright red.

  “No-o-o,” she said, extending the final vowel to prove her point. “So, we can ask him about the magic.”

  Gwenyre was sort of hoping they’d forgotten about that, but it was clear from Ametrine’s continued search for the old elf that the subject was not going to be dropped anytime soon. They each picked up their plates – a boring bowl of stew accompanied by a stale piece of brown bread, quite unlike yesterday’s feast – and walked around looking for him. Gwenyre didn’t put in much effort into the search, hoping they could avoid the conversation, until she heard Wyndemere calling from a few tables away.

  “Over here, I found him!” Ametrine arrived quickly, with Gwenyre taking a rather slow pace behind her.

  Cyran smiled at the girls, clearly happy to see them. He was sitting with his friends but made room for them at the end of the table like the night before. “How are you, ladies? How were the Stables, Gwenyre?”

  Ametrine answered before the elf could. “We are fantastic, Cyran. Thanks for asking. The Stables were absolutely abysmal, as usual. Stinking and busy. Master Phillipe really put us to work.” Cyran listened to her quietly, nodding along before turning to Gwen. She felt his eyes digging into hers as he waited for her to answer.

  She’d initially planned to play it cool and not give much information. Perhaps if she did that, she could avoid the entire conversation she was dreading. But she couldn’t be anything less than honest when he was looking at her like that. “It was great,” she started to gush, against her better judgement. “I loved the horses and the Master and the feel of it all.” She noticed a smirk growing on his face, indicating that he knew she’d be happy there. “The only thing that would’ve been better is if I could’ve gone for a ride,” she added in a melancholy voice
. “It’s been quite some time.”

  “Well, perhaps if you get placed there permanently. Master Phillipe always rewards those who work hard and have a talent with the animals, as I’m sure you do.” She grinned widely at that remark, happy that even he could see her skills and passion for the Stables. “And you, Wyndemere? It must have been busy, with most of the House visitors on their way out today.” Wind nodded, explaining her overwhelming day and the accident that put her out of commission while Cyran looked on with concern. Gwenyre couldn’t help but notice how well he portrayed his empathy – listening to each person as if they were the only one in the room, nodding along with them, wincing with their pain and laughing with their humor. She remembered that he was an empath, which is probably what made him such a good listener and friend. She knew she could trust this man, and suddenly felt alright with the prospect of telling him about the potential magic she may have performed.

  Before she could do that, Gwenyre made sure that she asked him about his day. The three girls loved to talk – Ametrine more than most, of course, but all were quite chatty – and she wanted to make sure he had his chance to get a word in. He was naturally quieter than them, stoic when discussing his own life; he explained it was an easy day in the Smithy due to their Master having quite a hangover from the prior day’s feast. “A bit too much ale,” he explained with a chuckle. “And not enough leaf weed. I would kill for a pipe.”

  Ametrine laughed loudly at this, unabashed in her flirting. The others stared at her with bewildered smiles on their faces until she noticed. “What?” she said mildly uncomfortably. “Is there something in my teeth?” Cyran shook his head, the smirk remaining on his face as he turned his head down to take another bite of his food.