Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  “You might not mean to keep her a slave, Olivar,” the Caern cut in, Master Olivar—just Olivar?—looking ready to continue with a much longer explanation for her. She almost wished he had been permitted to give it. “But that is what she knows. You may not intend to be her master, but that is how she views you. Taking her from the Narada does not change that.”

  Master Olivar’s hands clenched into fists, his eyes closing briefly. “She has been here less than a day,” he protested, his voice as tight as his body was taut. “She will need time to understand. This was not a mistake, Caern. Truly.”

  The Caern did not seem so wholly convinced. He finally withdrew his touch entirely, and now that she was no longer their focus, she felt the desire to tuck herself away under the table, hoping they wouldn’t notice her ever again. But she remained seated, holding the tunic tightly, despair niggling at her. There had been too many changes, too many unknowns, and she thought that she might break apart if there were to be any more of them.

  “Olivar,” the Caern soothed, stepping toward him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I do not doubt that your intentions were noble. But your brother was right to be concerned. I do not believe you have given this a great deal of thought—if any at all.”

  Master Olivar slumped slightly under the older man’s touch, casting her a woeful glance. She looked down at her hands, not wanting to be seen watching them. “Look at her. She is so small, and they were so rough with her. How could I have been expected to just leave her behind when they offered her? I... I understand your concerns. I do. There is much she will have to learn. But... I will help her.”

  The Caern sighed deeply. “And the next time? When they attempt this sort of trade again? What will you do? I am not certain I can trust you to make these runs any longer.”

  Master Olivar was silent, and she found herself tensing. She would not mind another thrall coming here. It would give her someone of her own station to speak with, to help her negotiate all the new rules she would apparently be learning. But if it was a male thrall...

  She shouldn’t have an opinion. If Master Olivar wished to bring one of those back, if he realised as the Narada had done so long ago that thralls could be made to reproduce...

  She did not want that. Not here. It did not matter if Master Olivar hadn’t struck her yet. If he gave her clothes and called them hers. Not if she had to submit to that again.

  “I just wanted to help her,” Master Olivar muttered at last, giving the Caern a hopeless look. “Was that so wrong?”

  The Caern gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You are soft-hearted, Olivar. You always have been. It is always... difficult to be faced with the reminder that our tradesmen have... less than desirable practices. But would you have us war with them? For your kin to die to set her people free?”

  Master Olivar hung his head. “I do not know.” It was more a whisper than a full admission, but still she heard it. And evidently so did the Caern.

  “I wish policy could be simple,” the Caern replied with a tired sigh. “I wish that justice did not have to come with bloodshed. But our world is imperfect, and every choice has its consequence. I merely hope we do not have to pay too dearly for yours.”

  She could feel them both looking at her, but she kept her gaze determinedly in her lap. She did not know what the Caern intended for her, and though the question burned on her tongue, she would not ask it. She would do as she was told, just as she had always tried to do. Even if that meant taking the boat back to her old masters and paying for yet another failure.

  Because it sounded like the Caern did not even think her worth a proper payment.

  She’d known that. Master Bendan had known it. But Master Olivar had fought for her all the same. And it likely would not be enough.

  “What would you have me do now?” Master Olivar asked, and she was relieved to hear the question even as she dreaded his answer. “What would you have done with…” he did not seem able to even finish the thought, but they all knew his meaning anyway.

  What would become of her?

  The Caern stared at her for a long while before shaking his head. “I will have to think on it,” he declared at last, rising to his full height and reminding them both of his position. “And what your responsibilities will be in the future.” His eyes narrowed at Master Olivar, and he waited until her master looked at him properly. “For this cannot happen again, Olivar. Do you understand? I will have your word on it. Not again.”

  Master Olivar did not respond right away, and the Caern gave him a warning look. “You have my word,” he relented at last, looking toward Ness briefly. She didn’t know what would become of her, but she found herself strangely concerned for what might happen to her new master as well. She was coming to believe that he had genuinely intended to help her by bringing her here, though she still did not quite understand her new role. It might be as terrible as the last, or it might not. She couldn’t be certain yet, not until Master Olivar decided to be more specific with his intentions.

  But he had been generous with her so far, more than any master had ever been before, and she did not want the Caern to hurt him. Not because of her.

  But she had not been given permission to speak, to voice such concerns to either of the men, so she merely peeked at them both warily, waiting and hoping that nothing terrible would happen.

  But the Caern merely patted his shoulder again. “Good. I will think on the situation and give word when next we shall meet. In the meantime...” he looked back toward her and she bowed her head quickly. “Ness, was it?” She nodded in confirmation. Her throat felt tight and she did not think she would be able to eke out a vocal response even if he commanded it. “Do try to listen to Olivar.” He thought that she would not? She was dismayed that he thought so poorly of her already. “And try to believe it when he says he is not your master. Things would be much better for you here if you could do that.”

  She took the words for the threat they were surely meant to be. She shivered, nodding furiously, her hands clutching the tunic to her chest as she bowed as best she could while still seated where she’d been placed. There were a few more lowered words, the Caern abandoning the Naradian tongue in favour of his own. Master Olivar did not admonish him again and she was glad of it.

  She shouldn’t want anything at all, but in the secret parts of her mind that did not seem to care for her training, she did. She wanted the Caern to leave, for it just to be her and Master Olivar again. For it to be her and the needle, for Master Olivar’s careful glances and curious questions.

  For that peaceful feeling to return that came with purpose and accomplishment.

  Boots met the planked floor again, and then the door opened and closed, and when she was brave enough she glanced upward quickly.

  He was gone.

  And Master Olivar was staring at her.

  She had crumpled the tunic thoroughly, and she forced her arms to relax so she could smooth it out over the table. She gave him an apologetic look, sorry for having mistreated his gift to her, but he wasn’t paying it any attention. He was merely watching her, his lingering attention making her grow nervous.

  She continued to smooth out the fabric, unvoiced questions swirling through her mind. He sighed deeply and returned to his abandoned chair. His steps were heavy, and he sank into the chair with a grunt of displeasure. She could not ask him what was wrong, it wasn’t her place, but he was clearly upset about something. She just hoped it wasn’t because of her.

  When he continued to sit quietly and her nervous glances had given her no further clue as to the source of his distress, she picked up her needle once more and returned to her work. Her hands shook and her stitches were poorly done, but she had been given no other task so she kept trying.

  Until finally a large hand enveloped hers, squeezing lightly, yet quite effectively halting her movements. “Stop, Ness.” Master Olivar ordered softly. “Just... stop. You can finish later.”

  She sniffled, her breath tr
apped in her burning lungs as she tried desperately not to sob. She had been frightened, terribly so, both for herself and for him, and though she tried to remain calm, to remind herself firmly that she wasn’t alone on her mat and this was wholly inappropriate, one slipped through anyway. “Ness,” he murmured, not a chastisement, not an order to cease her foolishness. Just a pained exhalation as he pushed his chair a little nearer, his hands abandoning hers as she was suddenly, inexplicably, being drawn into his arms.

  She sat, utterly frozen, not at all certain what he was doing. This was typically a restraint for a belligerent thrall. Is that how he saw her? She tried to stop her tears, but her efforts only garnered more as they slipped out unbidden.

  She waited for him to start squeezing, to suffocate her until she got control of herself, but it did not come. He merely patted her back and held her close, and though she was braced for the pain to begin, for some horror to start, he did nothing else. Only offered more of his unneeded apologies, his voice a soothing rumble.

  He was touching her. Not to hurt, not to chastise, not even to check for injury.

  Just... to comfort.

  “Am I going to die?”

  The words came unbidden. It was all too much, the foreign sensation of touch for comfort’s sake, for him to be speaking in such gentle tones. And all of it loosened her sobs, her tears, even as she hoped that her choked cries might have overwhelmed her query. But Master Olivar pushed her back slightly, the better to look at her, or perhaps the better able to punish her for speaking out of turn.

  But even as she thought it, she found that she didn’t really believe that was what he intended.

  And that was startling on its own.

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  She bit at her cheek, trying to force her breath into something calmer, though it was difficult. It seemed now that she had loosened her tears, there was no damming them up again. “You do not keep slaves,” she reminded him. “And that’s... what I am.”

  “Ness, no,” he told her emphatically. “That is not what he meant. I am... I am not certain what he does intend for your situation, but it would not be that.” He huffed out a frustrated breath, and she thought tiredly how she had caused him much of that today. But still he was patient, still hadn’t hurt her.

  Even now with his arms wrapped about her.

  “I am sorry you were frightened,” he murmured. Her muscles began to loosen despite her best intention, and then she was leaning against him, wholly enfolded by his long arms, her head resting against his broad chest.

  He was a master.

  And she was a poor excuse for a thrall.

  And yet...

  Yet he cradled her like she was a helpless babe who wept for they had not yet learned any words to allow for anything else.

  Is that what she was to him? She felt bemused at the prospect, but if it meant remaining like this... perhaps it would not be a terrible thing, to be seen as something young and fragile.

  “Maybe he was right,” he muttered to himself, his touches still gentle. “Maybe... maybe you are still a slave until you start to believe otherwise.” He leaned down a little, trying to catch her eye. She obliged, though it was difficult as they felt red and swollen. He smiled at her, a sad imitation of his other, much brighter expressions. “But we will help you with that, all right? And perhaps we could begin with my name.” He reached down and touched her cheek lightly. “Not Master Olivar, Ness. Never that. Just Olivar. Just... just a man. Not a master to you, or to anyone else.”

  She frowned. She waited for him to give her the word he would prefer, but none came. He simply sat, holding her close and waiting for her acceptance. She had to give it. He was commanding her not to call him Master Olivar, and she would have to oblige.

  But the larger thought... that he wasn’t a master at all? That was far more difficult to believe.

  A word didn’t change what he was. He was above her in all things, just as the Narada had been. She would learn what he needed of her, what he wanted her to provide, but that wouldn’t change her obligation to him.

  But he was looking at her so earnestly, as if he truly believed what he said, and she found herself nodding in acceptance. Not quite a lie, but not a full truth either. “Olivar,” she murmured softly, the name feeling almost indecent on her tongue. She hadn’t earned the right to call him by so intimate a thing. Hadn’t proven herself to him at all.

  But then he was holding her closer, and it was shameful that a small part of her relished in the contact—foreign, strange, and so entirely inappropriate. It should make her think of the implantations, of large bodies covering hers, smothering in their weight and heat.

  But it didn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  Not when he wasn’t making her lie down, lie back, to spread her reluctant legs so that he could...

  He wasn’t making her do anything at all.

  He merely patted her shoulder before sitting back, wiping at her sticky cheeks with his thumb. “I would like to think it is so simple,” he mused, her heart thundering quickly that he might have caught her half-truth. “But for all I know, you would agree to anything I asked of you.” His eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side as he studied her. “Would you?”

  This was a test, and one she would surely fail. Already her assurances were on her tongue, her training making this a simple answer. But Master Olivar... Olivar, had proven different, and perhaps he wanted to think that she acted from more than simple obedience.

  Perhaps he wanted her to think her compliance was born of her own will.

  But she did not have a quick response for that, a ready answer that had come from a keeper tasked with her instruction, and it made tears well anew, so lost and confused did she feel.

  Yet still he wasn’t angry, still his touch was gentle as he smoothed his thumb against her cheek, making a low tsking sound as he did so. “There is no need to cry, Ness,” he murmured softly, and for once she at least considered that maybe he meant to soothe her rather than given an order. He spoke too gently for a command, though perhaps that was simply his way.

  And it was a good way, at least to her. It made her want to please him, not just because it was her purpose, not just to keep from garnering more hurts.

  But because she liked the way he spoke to her, liked these calming touches.

  And she wanted to keep them.

  Even when she wasn’t supposed to want anything at all.

  6. Study

  “Are you awake?”

  The words were whispered, but she had come to learn that Master—no, not master, just Olivar, was not very good with whispering. She supposed that was to be expected from a man of his size, but what should have been a mere breath of sound became more of a rasping declaration. She didn’t mind. It was much better than how her old masters had spoken to her, or woke her at their entry.

  “Yes,” she answered quickly, sitting upright. In truth, it was difficult to sleep in Olivar’s home. She was used to total darkness in the dormitories, and these holes cut into the walls allowed no chance for continued sleep once the first sun began to rise. But she did not feel right rising when Olivar still slept, and he’d given her no instructions on what to do if she should wake first, so she merely stayed in her little nest and waited.

  If he realised she had slept poorly, he said nothing.

  The issue of where she should sleep had been a matter of great discussion the night before. He at first had insisted she utilise his bed, and though she’d made no argument against it, the look of alarm she’d been unable to completely conceal had made her position rather obvious.

  His ears had turned green, and he shuffled slightly, clearly embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to cause that, and she worked harder at maintaining a neutral expression. “I did not mean... I would not be in it with you,” Olivar quickly clarified, the green leeching into his cheeks as well. “I would make up a bed elsewhere.”

  Still, she said nothing. Everythin
g in her rebelled at the idea of displacing the master, but she also could not argue against him either. She bit her cheek, utterly uncertain of what was the proper protocol, then realised he might not have been aware of where she was used to sleeping. It would not be too rude to offer a suggestion—he had asked for her help, after all.

  “I am... used to the floor,” Ness offered hesitantly, though she made sure her words were clear enough to be easily understood. No master ever appreciated mumbling.

  Olivar frowned. “The floor,” he repeated, eyeing his own with distaste.

  Was that the wrong thing to have said? Her shoulder slumped a little. She hadn’t quite recovered from the Caern’s earlier visit, and it left her easily frightened and uncertain.

  It had not helped that she still felt strange after Master Olivar had held her as he did.

  “Yes,” she answered, a little more timidly than she had before. She did not want to upset him, and clearly this topic was doing so. “So there isn’t need to... I do not... it isn’t my place to take something of yours,” she finished lamely, her eyes fixed upon the floor in question. He didn’t want her calling him master, but maybe he didn’t want the reminder of her station either.

  She expected his tired sigh. “Ness.” It still felt odd to hear her name rather than to be called thrall. “I would not offer if I minded giving it. It is the same as the clothes. I would like to take care of you, and... not in the ways you have known before.”

  She ducked her head further. He did not want to be like the Narada. That was becoming most apparent. He did not seem to even like her expectations being modelled on what she’d known with them.

  He’d pulled out new bedding from one of his many cupboards, and did not even require her to be the one to strip the bed and put on fresh. He patted it welcomingly as he pulled back the topmost cover, and though her heart raced almost painfully, she relented, sitting down with great trepidation and keeping her worried eyes tightly closed.

  She didn’t like this. Not at all. Not just because it was his bed that he was coaxing her into, but also...