by E B Rose
“Olira,” he gasped, before skidding to a stop in front of her. “You’re late! Townsfolk said there were sightings of bandits near Attlecana Grove. I thought you were…”
“We were about to go search for you,” Jygan added. “Are you okay?”
From this close, Jygan’s smell would have watered Olira’s eyes. Tanning leather was a stinky business and the smell had sunk deep in Jygan’s skin and beard. However, the slave had already ruined Olira’s sense of smell. As soon as she took care of the more urgent business, she was going to pray Alunwea for a new nose.
“I’m okay,” Olira sighed. “Just help me get him inside.”
“Who’s this?” Gilann narrowed his eyes at the slave. “Is that a slave tattoo?” His brows furrowed even lower and his face twisted in disgust.
“Wow!” Ten-year-old Torren exclaimed after taking a closer look at the slave. “Not just any slave! He’s a beast!”
“Olira?”
“I’ll explain later,” Olira snapped. She softened her voice as she turned to the tanner. “Jygan, can you do me a favour?”
Jygan’s face was the definition of adoration. “Anything.”
“I had to leave all the supplies I bought at the roadside. Can you go with Gilann and bring them?”
“Of course.”
“Olira, where did this slave come from? Why did you…”
“Gilann, I said I’ll explain later! Just help me get him inside and go with Jygan before someone else finds all our supplies. Torren, you go and boil some water. Get me clean bandages, Asennamon roots, and Tiger Blossom leaves. Now!”
Gilann opened his mouth to continue his protests, but when the slave moaned, he decided to drop the argument for the time being.
The slave’s breathing was speeding up, becoming shallow and loud. The fever was eating up his body. They’d made it to the farm, and he was still alive, but Olira wasn’t sure if he had much time left.
Gilann and Jygan carried the slave inside and took him to Torren’s room. Olira described where she’d hid the supplies on the side of the road and sent them on their way. They took Jygan’s horse and Warrior, who was sullen to the prospect of going back on the road, but followed Gilann compliantly.
Olira stripped the slave of his clothes and unwrapped the dirty bandage on his leg. She briefly glanced at the old scars and burn marks across his chest. As long as they were not life threatening, they didn’t warrant a second glance.
An ugly, yellow puss leaked out of the wound. The slave’s flesh around the wound looked purple and rotten. Olira chewed inside her cheek as she wondered if she’d have to chop the leg off to save his life. How far had the infection gone? Were her herbs and medications going to be enough to give the slave a fighting chance?
Just as she opened her mouth to call out Torren where the Darkhome he was, the ten-year-old boy dashed into the room, clean bandages in one hand, and a bucket of cold water in the other. “I’m boiling some water in the kitchen,” he muttered, before dashing out again to bring Olira’s herbs.
They’ve spent the next hour cleaning the slave’s wound with water mixed with Gissuri powder and other herbs. Torren followed Olira’s instructions to make a paste with the Asennamon root and spread it on the infected wound. The roots were good to soak up the infection of the flesh. Olira made a mixture out of Tiger Blossom leaves and helped the slave drink it.
The slave’s eyes fluttered but never stayed open for long. He was dipping in and out of consciousness. His lips were moving, but most of his words were inaudible. She’d only made out one clear word amongst the sounds that escaped from his lips:
“Run!”
His voice quivering in urgency, he’d breathed out desperately.
Torren bit his lips as he sent curious glances at the man, his gaze lingering on the slave tattoo and over the circular burn marks across his chest.
“That one looks like a bird,” he said, pointing at one of the brands.
“They’re just old scars. We’re done here,” Olira said, pulling the blanket over the slave’s chest. “We’ll let him rest.”
She’d given the slave’s body what it needed to defeat the infection. The rest was up to him. Already witnessing how much of a fighter the man was, Olira’s hopes were high.
“Is he really a purebred?” Torren whispered, as if he was afraid the slave would hear. “They say purebreds don’t have rhoas. Is it true?”
“Don’t worry your head about him,” Olira said tiredly as she hurried him out of the room.
Torren kept talking excitedly as they headed into the small but cosy living area with an open kitchen and dining table.
“I can’t believe we have a slave now. Are we keeping him? How did we afford him? He’s a beast, isn’t he? I’ve heard they were monstrous! He doesn’t look monstrous…”
Olira rubbed her face, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the last two days collapsing on her shoulders. Her eyes drifted to the wall-mounted stove in the kitchen area. Her stomach was grumbling. She played with the idea of cooking herself some porridge.
Maybe after sitting and catching her breath for a couple of minutes.
She dragged her feet to the space in front of the old, stone hearth where Olira and all four of her brothers had a comfy chair or cushions to sit on at night. They’d either read on their own, or talk about the Twelve Riders, townspeople, or herbs.
She dropped herself on her large armchair as she asked: “Where are the twins?”
The armchair had been a mistake. As soon as the soft cushions of the chair hugged Olira’s back, her eyes closed. Somewhere far away, Torren was talking, but Olira had already drifted into sleep.
*
The smell of porridge woke her up.
Olira’s eyelids fluttered open as she moaned softly. She rubbed her eyes with her fists, trying to straighten up. She was having a dream about searching for a wild plant out in the woods. It had invisible leaves and a face with sharp teeth and blank, grey eyes. Just as she’d spotted it, it had reached out and snapped Olira’s hand off with its teeth.
She scoffed as she tried to shake the weird dream off her head. Those grey eyes she’d seen belonged to the slave. Her mind was too busy with him, that was all.
A bowl of porridge sat at the table. Despite the mess in the kitchen, she smiled. Torren, Alunwea bless his heart, must have thought she was hungry and tried to cook for her. Almost burnt it too, as the smell suggested.
Just as she moved to get off the couch, she paused, scowling at the bowl. There was no steam rising off it. She glanced out of the window, trying to figure out how long she’d been sleeping. Where was Torren? Why hadn’t he woken her up?
Then, she heard it again.
It wasn’t the smell of burnt porridge that woke her up. It was the sound. A soft thump, barely audible. A kick. Coming from one of the bedrooms.
She lunged out of her chair, dashing to Torren’s bedroom.
Her stomach churned with dread even before she pushed the door open. The view that greeted her inside Torren’s room was the portrayal of her greatest fear ever since she’d laid eyes on that slave.
The bed was empty, the blanket which Olira had pulled over the slave hours ago, was tossed aside in a pile. There was a pillow on the floor near the bed. An untidy bed wasn’t anything Olira hadn’t seen before, raising four young boys. She hardly even registered those details. Her eyes were fixed at the two of them on the floor.
The beast had pinned Torren under his weight. His massive hands were wrapped around Torren’s slender neck, squeezing the life out of him. The boy’s face had already turned an ugly tone of purple. His mouth was slack, and his arms twitched weakly.
The slave jerked his head up, his gaze falling on Olira. Those grey eyes appeared darker than a starless night. In the length of a single heartbeat, Olira was convinced that everything they’ve said about purebreds was true: They didn’t have any rhoas. They weren’t human. That twisted face, those eyes couldn’t have belonged to a human
being.
The slave blinked. His hands relaxed on Torren’s neck a split second before Olira had opened her mouth, though it could have been her imagination as well. It was too late. The words spilt out of her lips in a fearful scream.
“Prihjtivaviula! Prihjtivaviula! Prihjtivaviula!”
The slave was struck off Torren’s body by an invisible force. He dropped to his side, convulsing in pain.
Olira rushed to Torren, grabbed him under his arms, and dragged him near the door, away from the slave. The boy’s face was still purple, his eyes rolled back in his skull.
“Torren!” Olira said, shaking him violently. Was she too late? “Torren! Torren, wake up.” Her voice quivered as she slapped the boy’s face with enough force to leave a hand print.
Torren coughed. His eyes fluttered as he took a wheezing breath in, then coughed more.
“Merciful Alunwea,” Olira gasped.
She cradled Torren’s head in her lap, supporting him to sit up. The boy’s neck was bruised terribly. Tears ran down his face. Red veins stained the whites of his eyes. His breathing was shallow and painful, but he was going to live.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Olira said, doing her best to coat her voice with calm. She hugged Torren to her chest as her eyes trailed back to the slave.
His back was arching, his heels digging into the floor. His mouth was open, but his voice was stuck on his throat. A silent agony twisted his face. There was no visible source of his pain, but he sure seemed like his bones were on fire, eating his flesh up from inside.
Pain Word is used to punish him, Master Hasrey had told.
So, this must have been his Pain Word. In her panic upon entering the room, Olira didn’t have the time to recall all his Words. She’d memorized them all, but had blurted out the first one that came to her mind.
If he wasn’t hurting enough already, Olira would have gotten up and hurt him more.
Rage boiled inside her. She saw red. He’d attacked her little brother! After everything she’d done for him. All the trouble she’d been through to save his life! And look how he was repaying her!
A few seconds. If Olira was late a few more seconds, Torren would have been dead. The slave was a purebred monster! He was everything she’d feared he would be.
Her hands curled into fists as she shuddered in fury.
The slave’s convulsions weakened, though his muscles continued twitching. Olira tensed, holding Torren close protectively. She half expected the slave to attack them and readied to speak his Word again. Her voice froze on her lips when the slave rolled himself facedown and locked his fingers behind his head.
His face was pale. Shudders ran down his body as he tried to bite down a whimper. His posture was a surrender. Although he wasn’t begging out loud, in the way he’d stilled his body and had tried to appear as unthreatening as he could, he was pleading for her mercy.
“Why did you attack my brother?” Olira asked, her voice sounding more shaken then she’d have liked. Torren coughed again, still gasping laboriously.
The slave shook his head, never taking his eyes off the floor. “I… I don’t know, Owner,” he said. His voice was rough, strained. He bit his lips hard before he could say more.
Olira gritted her teeth. This wasn’t a good enough answer. When Torren wheezed painfully, she prioritized. She had to make sure Torren was okay. She was going to deal with the slave later.
“Stay where you are. Do not move a muscle, do you understand me?” Olira snarled.
The slave nodded vaguely as he acknowledged: “Yes, Owner.”
One moment, he was a monster trying to strangle a little boy. In the next one, he was a docile slave, eager to obey. Olira didn’t trust him. Not at all.
“Prihj…” she started, then snapped her lips together before finishing the word. Part of her took pleasure in the way the slave had tensed and flinched in fear. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the correct word. “Padlociatius,” she said hesitantly.
The slave’s muscles went slack as he lied still. Olira scowled suspiciously, though she was certain she’d pronounced the First Word accurately. According to Master Hasrey, the slave would stay paralysed for a minute. It’d be enough.
Scooping Torren up in her arms, she backed out of the room, leaving the door open. Keeping an eye on the slave over her shoulder, she opened the door across from Torren’s room. She put Torren on Gilann’s bed, still glancing back at the slave and listening for any sign of movement.
“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay,” she muttered as she tilted Torren’s head back to check on the bruising on his neck.
Torren’s body tensed and he pushed Olira away as he bent over to the side and vomited.
He wheezed and coughed, and when he had enough breath, he started crying. Olira soothed him in her arms, coaching him to take slow and calm breaths.
It took a lot more than one minute, which meant the slave’s temporary paralysis had passed, but when she looked over her shoulder, she could still see the slave. He was lying on the floor with his hands behind his head, just as she’d asked him. Had he passed out from his injury? Or was he just behaving now?
“Torren, what happened? What were you doing there?” she asked when Torren had calmed down enough to talk.
“His pillow,” Torren said hoarsely. “I was checking up on him. His pillow fell and I was tucking it back under his head. He attacked me.”
“Don’t ever go near him again, okay?”
Torren nodded, lowering his gaze.
Olira stood up, pushing her shoulders back. “Stay in Gilann’s room until I come back.”
“Where are you going?”
She glared at the slave across from the hall. Her face turned to stone. “I’m going to take care of him,” she said coldly.
10
LION
Lion woke up beside the girl, not feeling rested at all.
The bed was small and he was not used to sharing it with another. No matter how petite the girl was, it still felt cramped and uncomfortable. However, this wasn’t the reason why he was up all night. It was the girl’s silent sobs.
She’d been crying again.
She was facing the wall as usual, with the blanket pulled over her hips. The room was dark except for a dash of moonlight seeping through the narrow window. The moonlight made her body look pale, almost like the porcelain statues one of the Northern lords had brought Queen Arasanara as a gift. Lion’s eyes followed the naked curve of her hip, the scarred surface of her back, outline of her shoulder blades. Her body shook with silent sobs and soft cries.
He glanced at the square window on the wall. The moonlight was still bright. He wasn’t allowed to leave his room this early.
This had been their third night together, and he’d woken up to her silent sobs on every one of them. He was used to hearing other slaves - mostly freeborn - cry. He could sleep through any noise, but this one kept him up.
He was being gentle with her; following her lead, making sure not to touch her bruises. He wasn’t hurting her. She wasn’t in any physical pain, as much as he could tell.
Then why was she crying? And most importantly, how could he make her stop?
His chest felt tight. She had to stop. Hesitantly, he reached over her and pressed a finger against her lips.
She tensed, but stopped sobbing. He could feel her heart beating faster. He shifted closer, his large body spooning hers. He nuzzled his face in her wildfire hair; his blonde mixed with her red. His fingers caressed her face, wiping the warm tears away. For a brief moment, it seemed to be working. He was almost pleased with himself.
Then, she pushed his hand away, firmly.
The gesture felt like a punch to his guts, and he had no clue why. She inched away from his warmth, though there was not much room to go, between Lion’s body and the wall.
He blinked at the back of her head. Although he wasn’t hurting physically, he still felt like hot branding irons were pressing inside his chest, burning
his heart.
He could hardly wait until the moon started fading. As soon as it was light enough to justify leaving his room, he rolled out of the bed, got dressed, and left.
The rest of his day went by as usual; he trained, he ate, he trained more. Badimar was still cautious about straining his shoulder too much. Lion didn’t share his caution today.
His mind went blank while following his training drills. He gave his fullest to the exercises; pushed his body harder than he ever did. The harder he worked, the less he had to think about the confusing tightness in his chest. He was the King’s champion Beast. He was Lion of Zarall. He was purebred.
He made no mistakes in any of the training drills and elicited two appraising grunts from Badimar. Not only they were rare, they were also unexpected, given Badimar’s current mood.
The Master of the Beasts was snappy, intolerant, and on edge ever since the incident with the girl. After Lion’s first night with her, Badimar had dragged him to Vanalten first thing in the morning, to check his eye. Although the old physician was shaken at first, he was quick to dismiss the scratch after checking it thoroughly.
Throughout the examination, Lion had clasped his right hand in his left casually, hiding the bite mark in his palm. After witnessing their reaction to a minor scratch like this, he wasn’t sure how Badimar would react to another injury, no matter how insignificant the injury was. He’d managed to keep his hand dirty for the rest of the day.
He’d found out that Badimar had tried to kick the girl out. He’d requested an audience with King Leonis, but was fended off by Fauwyn, the royal secretary, saying the King wasn’t going to annul his agreement with Lord Hosten over a scratch. Badimar had breathed fire for the rest of the day, being exceedingly generous with his whip and his use of Pain Words.
Even today, every time he glanced at Lion’s face and saw how close the girl had gotten to blinding him, Badimar barked at the nearest beast and cracked his whip.
