Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  The fingers at her chin were gentle as they coaxed her face upward. His fingers were thick and blunt at the ends, lacking in sharp claws or other obvious natural weaponry. But there was strength there as well, and she did not doubt how much harm he could inflict if he so chose.

  He said nothing, only looked, and though it was difficult with him so close to her, she managed to keep from glancing up at his eyes directly. She would prefer not to be hit again by the master if she could at all help it.

  “Well?” the master asked, his voice tinged with impatience. “Do we have an accord?”

  “Olivar,” this Bendan entreated again. “We cannot possibly bring her with us.”

  “Yes,” the man objected, rising to his feet. “We can. You may consider her a part of my share.”

  He was going to take her? She would be... his?

  She looked to the master in alarm, waiting to hear that she had in fact misunderstood this entire exchange, and he must have felt her look for he glared at her, pulling her to her feet. He leaned down, his voice a warm hiss against her ear. “They are your masters now. Perhaps you will prove a more proficient thrall to them than you have for us.” He tapped her cheek sharply and her eyes flickered to meet his at the order. “You will remember what you are. You are payment. You are a thrall, and nothing more. Their ways may be different, but that truth does not alter. Do you understand?”

  No. Not in the least. All of this was too much, too befuddling, but she knew that was not the correct answer. So she pushed down the lump in her throat and managed a quiet, “Yes.”

  He nodded, shoving her forward toward the man who had claimed her.

  She did not expect him to catch her, to steady her instead of allowing her clumsiness to let her sprawl on the ground beside his feet.

  “She is yours no longer,” Olivar growled, his voice dropping to a deep rumble. It was enough to send a shiver of fear through her. It might not be directed at her this time, but it could be, would be, very soon. “You do not touch her.”

  Ness’s eyes widened. She had not expected such an order. Certain masters could be their keepers, but no Narada was specifically forbidden from doing anything to a thrall, even if they were the charge of another. It could give insult, if they were particularly favoured in a household, but she was most certainly not worth staking such claim.

  It did not settle well with her that her masters had not explained how deficient she truly was. These newcomers obviously thought she was worth the trade of their wares, and she shuddered to think what would happen to her when they began to know of her incompetence.

  The master gave a grunt, not quite an agreement but nor did he protest the affront as she would have expected. Who were these men that they could get the masters to negotiate? To concede?

  One of the masters gave a whistle and a few strong thralls appeared from behind the trees, eyes downcast as they picked up the arms of the cart, ready to pull it back to the tunnels where it presumably would not reside. It did not escape her notice that it would take six thralls to accomplish the task done by these two strangers.

  The master who had been her keeper eyed her for a moment before he addressed the now burdened thralls. “You will forget her. She is nothing.”

  Ness doubted that it was necessary to say. None had looked at her, and she doubted they would have even questioned her presence. Which meant he added it mostly for her benefit.

  She suddenly felt smaller and more insignificant than ever before.

  She did not expect Olivar to step forward, his fist tightly clenched. “If she is nothing, then it was a poor bargain you offered. Perhaps we should insist upon more as payment?”

  The master—or perhaps not her master any longer?—hesitated, a strange reaction from him. “Our dealing is done,” he said in lieu of apology. “Take your payment and depart.”

  Bendan stepped forward then, his eyes narrowed. “Speak carefully,” he warned, his voice hard. “Or we will report the absurdity of this exchange. Is that what you would like?”

  The Narada did not relent, nor did she fully expect them to. Whatever respect they had for these men kept them from attempting harm, but their pride was plain. So with only another grunt they ordered the thralls to bring the cart, the party of them leaving without any further words.

  None turned back to look at her, to offer her any further direction, and every part of her yearned to follow. To be out here alone was forbidden. And though it was probably wrong to question it, despite what she’d been told, she did not yet fully believe that these new men were her masters now.

  She didn’t want punishment, didn’t want whatever test this was. She did not know the rules, did not know how to behave, and with every moment her heart beat a little faster, her breath coming in tight, harsh pants.

  She startled when a hand landed on her shoulder, and she forced herself to be still. She huddled, her arms coming about herself as she tried to be as deferential as possible while struggling to understand what she should do.

  Perhaps the master had not really meant what he said. This could be a test of loyalty, to see if she would return where she belonged—to beg to be given another opportunity to bring honour to herself and prove a worthy thrall.

  But he had spoken so resolutely, and a master’s word was always true. She was nothing.

  And rather than kill her outright, they had traded her away, given her to these strangers to be used as they saw fit.

  One of them said something, his voice biting, and the one touching her shoulder cut in before the other—Bendan?—could continue. “It is rude to speak what is not known to another present. She will not understand our tongue.”

  She didn’t know why that mattered. They were certainly entitled to private conversation without her being privy to their words.

  “You are still a fool, no matter the language,” Bendan muttered, coming forward and peering down at her. “What are you going to do with her?”

  Olivar’s grip on her shoulder tightened a little, and she belatedly realised he was trying to turn her. She obliged, her body moving to obey even though her mind seemed rather distant from it all.

  She had known there were other kinds in the world, of course she did. It was no secret that the Narada relished their wars with some, their trade with others, and thralls would help with whatever task was required of them. But she had been confined to the tunnels where these others never strayed, and she had not learned anything of their ways, of their requirements.

  Any action at all was dangerous. Disrespect could easily be given regardless of intention, and punishment could be swift.

  It was enough to make her whimper when he touched her again, though she stifled it quickly. “I will take her home,” Olivar declared inspecting her closely. She closed her eyes lest he see some of her fear and confusion, but he tapped her cheek gently with one of his thick fingers. “Can you open your eyes?” he asked, and they flew open at his command, but she kept her gaze respectfully lowered. He tapped her cheek again, leaning down a little further, apparently trying to catch her eye. When she understood he meant for her to look at him fully, she did so, and he seemed pleased.

  That was something, at least.

  “There you are,” Olivar commended.

  She wanted to hide again. But her training forced her to maintain the contact until he ordered otherwise. He held a hand over his chest. “I am Olivar, and this is my brother, Bendan. What is your name?”

  He wanted a name from her?

  She wasn’t even certain why he was giving her his own title. He was a master, that much was becoming clear, as was his apparent brother. She had an understanding of that concept. The masters could have siblings, others born of the same mother. She supposed thralls could have something similar, but the meaning was lost when none knew of their progenitors.

  The masters did not give names to the thralls, not even in childhood. They were not needed. It was their responsibility to always pay attention, and names were like belong
ings—they were for masters, not for thralls.

  But the children often conjured their own titles, whispered and passed along in the dark, a remnant of ways nearly forgotten. They were something real, something theirs, only to be used when a master wasn’t near.

  Did he know she’d been disobedient even then?

  “Thrall,” she answered hopefully, though her voice remained small.

  Olivar frowned. “You don’t have a name? None at all?”

  Her lip quivered. Apparently he intended to force her to acknowledge her rebellion openly, just as the master had done earlier. And though her desire to avoid punishment urged her to lie, she knew that to do so meant a worse fate if ever he learned the truth.

  “Ness,” she relented, closing her eyes as she braced herself to be struck for the impertinence of having chosen a name for herself.

  Yet it did not come.

  He only gave her shoulder a soft pat. “Ness. A fine name.”

  At that her eyes flew open, and she could not fully hide her astonishment. He shook his head, and unless she was wholly mistaken, she thought she saw a tinge of sadness in his features. “Let us go home.”

  He seemed to want the words to be a comfort, his voice just as soft as the look he gave her. And that was strange and unexpected, but almost added to how overwhelmed she felt at all that had transpired.

  And she had to suppress the urge to cry as every step led her further away from everything she’d known before.

  2. Row

  Her new masters could not seem to stop arguing. Bendan seemed less than pleased at her presence, while Olivar remained adamant that the barter was a fair one.

  She wanted to correct him, but that would mean contradicting him, and she hadn’t been given leave to speak in any case.

  “I should still inform the Caern,” Master Bendan grumbled.

  She would have tried forgetting their names, tried making them as nameless and faceless as her other masters had been, but Master Olivar had been unwavering on the apparent importance of using the titles. So she would do as he commanded, even if it made her nervous that she was overstepping.

  “I cannot stop you,” Master Olivar conceded. “But you cannot make me regret accepting her.”

  Master Bendan grumbled something in a language she did not know. “I am not suggesting you were... entirely mistaken,” he said at last, glancing at her quickly. “But what if they try to make that trade again? You wish us to begin keeping slaves as they do?”

  Master Olivar frowned. “No, of course not.”

  His brother seemed to think he was beginning to win the argument, for he pressed on. “Then what?

  Ness truly tried to keep from listening, but she found it impossible not to—especially when this so directly involved her and her place amongst them. She rather hoped that he would bring her aside, would begin training her in his expectations specifically so she would not embarrass both of them when she came into contact with the rest of his people, but she would have to settle for this.

  “How could you even think of leaving her there?”

  She had not expected him to respond in such a way, his own tone relating his disappointment in his brother. It was strangely... sweet, in its way, a quality she never thought she would attribute to a master.

  “Olivar,” Bendan tried to placate, giving her another nervous glance. She must have misinterpreted it, for there was no possible way he could actually be nervous about her. “Of course we do not... condone the Narada’s keeping of them. You know this. But what would you have us do? We cannot save them all. Not without sacrificing so many of our own. War is far less beneficial than trade.”

  Master Olivar frowned at him. “I am not asking to save them all. Just this one. And if she was offered, I certainly was not going to refuse.”

  Save her?

  Her heart sped just to think of it, but she buried her hopefulness thoroughly. She didn’t know these men, had no concept of what that might mean to them. Perhaps he meant to kill her himself, a mercy in itself if he thought she would come to further harm by the Narada. That wouldn’t be so bad, she told herself firmly. If he was quick, and didn’t let it hurt too much...

  Master Bendan didn’t want to argue any longer for he shook his head, “There is nothing for it now, I suppose,” he grumbled, looking at her again. She kept her attention on her feet, wondering how long they would be walking before they reached their intended destination.

  The light of the suns still hurt her eyes, and she was grateful when the path led them into a cropping of trees, the shade a welcome respite. She still had to squint a little, but the sharp throb in her eyes diminished, if just a bit.

  The longer she focused on the simple act of walking, the easier it became to keep from listening to the conversation between the two men. She was still worried about eavesdropping, and if they asked her directly if she had been snooping, she would have to confess the transgression. She would prefer not to face that punishment if it could be helped.

  Perhaps it proved too effective for she missed Master Olivar trying to get her attention. She eyed him fearfully, waiting for him to hit her for making him address her twice, but he merely tapped her shoulder. It was still... odd, to be treated so, to not have been hurt by him yet. But a part of her almost wished that he would do so, simply so she would know what to expect in the future. For she knew well she would make a mistake very soon, and to have no concept of how harsh he could be, of what would have to be endured...

  He was frowning, displeased, and she bowed her head lowly, trying to show how sorry she was for not paying attention without using words.

  He sighed, and she bit her cheek hard, hating that she’d apparently erred yet again. “I only wanted to ask you if you had been on a boat before,” he informed her. He did not sound impatient, but she was certain it must have been hidden beneath his placid tone.

  “I do not... believe so,” she confessed, wondering how that would be received. She wasn’t even certain what a boat might be, the word conjuring nothing in her mind.

  He gripped her chin again, coaxing her to look upward. Thankfully he did not insist she stare at him directly again, he merely required her to raise her head enough that she could see that he was pointing.

  She must have grown truly oblivious to their surroundings for she missed that they’d neared a large river. The water itself was quite still, but the sunlight glared off the surface most painfully. She forced herself to keep looking as she was bid, trying to keep from squinting but finding it nearly impossible.

  “We live upriver,” Master Oliver was telling her. “So we will board and row the craft until we port back home.” Why was he telling her this? Belatedly she realised he expected her to do this thing called row and he was being kind enough to explain his expectations. She rubbed her hands against her rough shift worriedly. She hadn’t the least idea how to row. What if she was dreadful at it? Would he cast her over the side?

  She would drown, of that she was certain. She had seen a drowning once. A man had been caught pairing with a woman he was not assigned to, and a large trough had been filled and the master held him beneath the surface until his struggles had ceased. She had always wondered if perhaps he would have been allowed to live if he managed to keep from fighting the master—had accepted the lack of air like a proper thrall. But she had never been drowned before, and perhaps it was too hard to keep completely still.

  She hoped she would not have to find out today.

  “Ness? Is that acceptable?”

  Her brow furrowed. He directed her to look at him again, and he must have noticed her confusion—she scolded herself for that—but he did not seem angry. “I do not want you to be frightened,” he informed her. Do not show fear, she told herself. He did not want that. She hoped she could obey, but sometimes it slipped out despite her best efforts. “But it would be a very long walk if we could not sail.”

  He seemed to be waiting for a response of some kind, but she could not decide wha
t would be safest to say. He could not possibly have meant it when he seemed to be asking her for some sort of consent as to how they would journey back to his home. He clearly had a language of his own, and while he spoke the Naradian tongue well, it was only reasonable to think some things would be difficult to translate correctly. “I will go,” she told him, peeking at him briefly and hopeful that was the correct answer. If he needed assurance that she intended to be obedient, she would gladly give it.

  She was absurdly grateful that he appeared satisfied with her answer.

  He smiled and patted her shoulder. “Good,” he affirmed, and something in her preened. She was not given praise often—she would’ve had to be a far more competent thrall to even begin to deserve it, but already she had pleased the new master.

  Her little swell of pride did not last long, however. She mustn’t grow too confident or else it would be all the harder when praise turned to censure, when his pats became harsher as he had to bestow discipline.

  The reminder helped ease her back into a careful wariness, watching carefully for any additional clues as to the nature of these new folk.

  She did not know why she was surprised when there were other men waiting at this thing called a boat. They spoke easily with the new masters, and though Master Olivar frowned, he did not correct them as he had his brother regarding their choice of language. They all eyed her with varying expressions, some more displeased than others, and that was enough to keep her attention at their feet. They wore thick foot coverings, she noted, and they did not appear to be naturally formed like the Narada. They must be soft and fleshy like...

  No. They were not like thralls. Her kind was unique, made especially to serve.

  She huddled a little when a voice grew angry, and suddenly the light of the suns grew dimmer. She looked up to see what had happened, her vision blocked by Master Olivar. He had come to stand before her, his fists clenched.

  And though she did not know why she thought of it, she was reminded of that wilder who had died, his stubbornness his last form of rebellion before the Commander cut him down.