Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  “My things will dry,” she reminded him cautiously, just to be sure he remembered that.

  “True,” he relented, though there was a harder edge to his expression that bade her be careful. “But I would... prefer to give you something else. If you will accept it.”

  She let her hands drift over the fabric of the offered tunic. It was sturdy, much as the clothing was she’d always worn, and would be quite serviceable. And once she cut away the unneeded fabric, there would be enough to fashion sleeves. She hesitated, but needed to know his expectation. “How much would you like covered?”

  He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tense, and she fought the urge to take a step backward. No running, she reminded herself firmly. “I want you to do what you would like, Ness,” he said at last, opening his eyes and taking a step forward. He patted her shoulder again, though like last time, it lingered a little. She wondered why he did that, felt the need to touch without inflicting some kind of hurt.

  She did not mind it. It made her nervous, her stomach forming a tight knot as she waited for him to do as her other masters always had. But so far he had never been unpleasant to her, and she supposed in time the touches could become the comfort he seemed to intend. It was incredibly odd to even consider such a thing. But Master Olivar was unlike any man she’d known, and it felt wrong to presume anything about him.

  Whether or not he realised his full authority over her, he seemed adamant about these clothes being hers—and that she was to determine their style. Seeing her fully bared clearly upset him, as did seeing her torso and breasts, so those she would most definitely ensure were wholly covered by whatever she made.

  But... she rather liked the freedom that came from her arms being uncovered, especially if the days would remain as hot as this one had been.

  “All right,” she affirmed. “If... if it is really acceptable to you...”

  His smile was a bright, lovely thing, even if a part of her was unnerved that it was directed at her.

  “Excellent!” he declared with another pat to her shoulder. “I have mending things... somewhere.”

  She wondered if it would take him as long to find those as it had the itchy sleeved garment.

  But instead of fearing that she had been too critical of her master, she found herself feeling oddly tender toward this strange, unpredictable man beside her.

  And that frightened her most of all.

  5. Caern

  Ness always enjoyed sewing.

  Creating something from only a bolt of cloth, each tiny stitch precisely pricked and then pulled taut. The approving looks from Nell when she mastered something new. She found herself glancing upward every so often in search of the older woman, but of course she was no longer there.

  She wondered if another thrall had taken her place, if she was already learning how to sew and mend. Most likely. And she was probably learning far more quickly than Ness ever did.

  The thought troubled her, and she glanced nervously toward her new master. He wasn’t looking directly at her, however, simply watching her hands as she worked, his eyes squinting as her needle continued to meet with the cloth.

  At first she thought she was doing something wrong, that he regretted offering her these extra items too. She still wore his too-large items as she worked, and after enough shifting and knotting, she ensured she was covered to his satisfaction.

  He had urged her to pick additional items from his wardrobe, assuring her that he had plenty and she would have need of more clothes in any case. She’d stared at him, wide eyed and uncomprehending, but he’d merely smiled and opened the wardrobe door fully, gesturing for her to come closer.

  She did so, a shuffling, halting thing, as her eyes flitted between the bountiful garments and her new master. Either this was a test or he truly had no concept at all at what made for a master. He shouldn’t be offering her these things, shouldn’t have offered even what he had, but he did, and he was and she...

  Her breath came in quickened gasps, her heart raced, and although she had been given a task, she could not seem able to even bring her hand up to pick the oldest and plainest of his many clothes.

  He had noticed her distress quickly, offering more of his ready apologies, pulling free a few items instead and allowing her to choose out of the more limited selections.

  “Better?” he’d asked. He was smiling at her encouragingly, wiggling the tunics at her a little to persuade her to choose one. “There is no need to look so frightened. I can... choose if you would prefer, but I would very much like to know you are getting something you would like.”

  She did not miss the worry in his eyes, strange though it was. She had seen such things in other thralls, sometimes, before sympathy had been thoroughly expunged. But never from her old masters. Their hard-plated faces concealed most of their emotions, and their small, dark eyes revealed only anger.

  But not Master Olivar.

  His were soft and warm, and held such concern for her.

  It made it so very tempting to trust him.

  She released a shaky breath and gathered as much courage as she could. He did not grow impatient as she reached out trembling fingers and touched each of the tunics, the leggings, and even some of the prickly, long-sleeved things, before finally making her choices with a wary, uncertain look at him for approval.

  He smiled at her, shoving the others back into the wardrobe. “Excellent selections,” he praised, and the tight knot of worry in her stomach began to loosen, if just a little.

  He brought her back to the main room, sitting her at the table as he found a needle and thread—not the same green as the tunic, she noted, but did not correct him. It would service well enough, and it would prove even more incentive to keep her stitches small so her work would not be predominately displayed.

  The cutting tool was completely foreign. It was not a knife and slim board to keep the lines straight as she was used to seeing Nell work with expert ease. These were like two slim blades joined by a single handle. She looked down at them helplessly, hoping that he did not expect for her to use them. She had at least seen Nell’s technique enough to be certain of the process, but this tool looked horribly daunting.

  “Ness? Are you going to start? I have not changed my mind, if that concerns you. Those are yours now.”

  She bit her lip and looked at the new tool miserably, deciding it was better to be honest than to ruin his generous offerings as she fumbled with an instrument she did not understand. “I... I have never used anything like that,” she admitted, bowing her head.

  “Oh.” He sighed again. “You do not have to look that way, Ness. I am not angry with you. You can tell me when you do not know things.” She blinked, not expecting such understanding. She wondered how long it might last, his patience, his compassion, and part of her needed it to end quickly, lest she grow too used to it and come to expect it instead of being hurt for her ignorance.

  Master Olivar came around the table and took her hand in his, putting the shears, as he called them, against her palm and manipulating her fingers around the handle. His much larger hand engulfed hers as he urged her to compress her hand, making the first cut in what was once his tunic.

  “Nothing to it,” he declared with a smile. She reached out a tentative finger and pressed lightly against the blade. She wasn’t silly enough to press until she bled, but it was clear how sharp the contraption was. He did not take the shears back, only nodded at her encouragingly, and she swallowed thickly. She gave another tentative cut, her hand unused to the motion, but the fabric yielded readily enough to the sharp implement. Even her old masters had not trusted her enough with something so dangerous, Nell always handing her cut pieces to sew. It both pleased and frightened her that she should have won this master’s trust so quickly.

  But he still watched her carefully. At first she had thought it was with suspicion, perhaps waiting for her to do something foolish—as if she would ever be so stupid as to try to attack someone of his size! But he beg
an to ask her questions as she worked, about how she knew how much to cut, how to fashion a seam, which stitch to use.

  Apparently interest was what held his attention, not wariness, and she obliged him with what answers she could, growing in confidence as his too-big tunic began to transform into something much closer to her size.

  It was peaceful work, when at last he fell silent and allowed her to stitch quietly as she was used to. She did not converse much with Nell, their keeper usually chastising them for too many words if anything strayed beyond a lesson. Ness did not think she could make anything as fine as the person who had crafted Master Oliver’s original clothing, but perhaps that was for the best. It should be apparent she was a thrall and therefore of a much lower station than her new master. They weren’t alike, even if their kinds were perhaps more similar physically than her people and the Narada. Though, she thought grimly, her stature would never allow any to mistake her for a mistress, regardless of what she wore.

  Her head jerked upward at a sound beyond the closed door, heavy boots meeting the wooden stairs leading to the living quarters. Her fingers stilled, her eyes widening, and even Master Olivar looked a little nervous as he rose to greet the newcomer. Perhaps it was Master Bendan. She was fairly certain that direct kin would enter a living space without invitation, but she knew little of family, or her new master’s ways. From his posture, it was clear he had not been expecting anyone, and that in turn fuelled her own trepidation.

  She did not know what to do when Master Olivar opened the door and immediately allowed a strange man to enter. She had not been instructed in how these new masters greeted one another or what they might expect from someone like her. Master Olivar had given her permission to sew, but perhaps it would be rude to continue working and not acknowledge a new master’s appearance? Master Olivar did so like for her to look at him, to speak in turn when he addressed her, but there was no guarantee that another master would appreciate the same treatment.

  She bit her cheek, warring with herself as she watched her master bow his head in deference to the elder, as the older man passed him and entered the living space.

  Master Olivar had never made such a gesture before. Not with his brother, not with the others on his ship. Not even with the old masters. Was he important, then?

  He was not dressed very differently than Master Olivar. He carried no staff like the Commander, a sign of authority or weapon depending on his mood. But there was an air about him that made her heart to quicken, and she felt his gaze on her even as she dropped her eyes quickly to the floor.

  Her legs ached with the need to drop to the floor, to show this man proper respect, but she did not know the rules, did not know what was expected of her. So she sat, frozen and frightened.

  The new man spoke, his voice a low rumbling sound that fit his large frame. She expected Master Olivar to speak the same tongue, but he seemed insistent that she be included in all these conversations. She still could not imagine why. “She speaks only Naradian,” Master Olivar corrected. She flinched that he should do so. She did not want him to be in trouble.

  But so far the man did not seem too terribly angry. At least not that she could see from her diminutive peeking. “When Bendan informed me that you had done this, I thought he was jesting,” the man told her master, apparently willing to utilise Master Olivar’s chosen speech. Ness doubted the Commander would ever have made such a concession, so perhaps she was wrong about his station.

  The words might have been directed to Master Olivar, but his eyes were fixed upon her. She didn’t like him looking at her, didn’t like it at all. She had come to be, perhaps not fully at ease, but at least not utterly fearful in Master Olivar’s presence. But this man brought all of her nerves back tenfold with his searching eyes and dissatisfied tone.

  “I would have hoped he would have given me a little time with her before running to you,” Master Olivar grunted, his displeasure with his brother obvious even to her. She bit her lip, not liking the idea that he would quarrel with his family because of her, but there was nothing she could do to change it now.

  “Olivar,” the newcomer sighed, shaking his head. “He did not run to me. I was at the harnel and asked after you. He was not wrong to speak of what transpired.”

  Master Olivar grunted again, his jaw tight. She wished he would not argue, not when she was so uncertain of this man’s position. Would he be hurt for this? Punished? Not like a thrall of course, there would be rules and order regarding any censure for a master, but...

  There was no mistaking that the older man’s tone held a hint of warning, and her suspicions of him grew all the more that he did hold some authority over her new master. “I still believe they should not have troubled you with this, Caern,” Master Olivar objected, though his tone was more subdued than she had typically heard from him. She did not know if Caern was a name or perhaps a title, but from the way Master Olivar used it, she suspected the latter. But it hadn’t been given to her in any case, so she would not use it. “It was my bargain to make.”

  The new man gave him a peculiar look. “And your actions do not affect others? You do not live in community with us?” Master Olivar looked away, almost ashamedly. “It is a precedence, Olivar,” the other master continued, his tone corrective. “A dangerous one.”

  Master Olivar shook his head, taking a step nearer to her. “She is just a girl,” he argued. A lump settled in her throat to hear him protest. To defend her. “Hardly dangerous at all!”

  The other man sighed deeply. “I did not say that she was dangerous. But there are many other agreements at stake, and I would not have the Narada attempting this sort of trade again. Whether well intentioned or not, you gave them the impression that such means are acceptable currency. I can assure you they are not. We do not keep slaves here. I will not see it done now.”

  Ness wilted. She no longer doubted that this newcomer was an authority, for both his tone and demeanour commanded compliance from Master Olivar.

  They did not keep slaves. She was a slave. Which meant she would either be returned, or killed.

  She pinched a fold of fabric between her fingers, biting her cheek hard as she tried not to feel anything at all. She had never been very good at it and was no more so now, this stranger standing there, commanding that Master Olivar get rid of her.

  Would he do it here? She despaired, thinking of the mess that would leave for Master Olivar, and he did not like to see her blood...

  “She is not a slave,” Master Olivar protested, coming even nearer. “Not here!”

  The man ignored him. “What is her name?”

  Master Olivar did not answer right away, but eventually he begrudgingly relented. “Ness,” he answered, eyeing her worriedly. She did not know why he should feel the need to protect her name, not unless he realised she had been wrong to choose one in the first place.

  She kept her attention fully on the floor. She still held Master Olivar’s old tunic in her lap but could not seem to let it go. She should. If the Commander had ever seen her with something of the master’s, she doubted she would live long afterward.

  Fingers gripped her chin, not hard, but firmly. Her face was tugged upward, and though she released the tiniest of whimpers, she relented and looked at this new man, though every part of her rebelled. This wasn’t her place, this wasn’t right. She had finally felt a little safe here and now...

  It was good he had come. How quickly she had begun to dismiss all her years of training, all because Master Olivar did not know how to be a proper master.

  This strange man was not quite what she expected. He did not smile, not like Master Olivar, but he did not possess the hard edge that the Commander boasted. His eyes were not cruel, but they did not look at her softly either. They simply looked, waiting.

  “Ness,” Master Olivar cut in, and her eyes flickered in his direction only briefly. “This is the Caern. Our...” he struggled for the proper word. She didn’t need one, she knew what he was. “Leader,”
he finally settled on. He took a step forward, his attention turning to the Caern. She had been right after all—it was a title. Not a master then, but something else entirely. She had to suppress another whimper. “You are frightening her,” Master Oliver reproached him.

  She nearly whimpered again, certain that Master Olivar would be severely censured for offering admonishment to the leader. The Commander would certainly never have tolerated that, even from a master.

  But the Caern merely continued to ignore him, focusing solely on her.

  It made her want to squirm.

  “Ness,” the Caern rumbled, her eyes meeting his as Master Olivar had so often instructed. “What is that man’s name?”

  She blinked, not expecting such a question. “Master Olivar,” she answered quickly, hoping to please him. She did not want to die today, and most especially not here in Master Olivar’s fine living quarters.

  There was a sharp inhalation next to her, almost as if the use of the title was surprising to Master Olivar. She couldn’t imagine why. Or perhaps he hadn’t intended for her to use his name after all?

  When she was sewing, when it was just her and her new master, she had finally felt a little calmer, as if she could find her place here, odd though it might be. But now she felt uncertain and panicky, and it made it more difficult when Master Olivar came closer, dismay written plainly on his features.

  “Ness, no, just... it is just Olivar.”

  He seemed almost pained just saying it, and her brow furrowed. Perhaps he did not like having the same title as the Narada had used. Their peoples were very different, so she supposed that was a reasonable conclusion. But that wouldn’t change what he was, of course.

  She did not expect the Caern to pat her head, not harshly, not a slap, just a gentle gesture that she did not know how to reconcile. She was a thrall, a stupid one at that, and she did not deserve his praises, or his tender touches.