She was being foolish. A master would never want that from a thrall. Such relations were only for a mistress, and that certainly wasn’t her.
But Master Olivar seemed a little confused about such boundaries and though he’d assured her that he meant her to sleep here alone...
He sighed again, kneeling down so he could study her face. “You really do not want to sleep here, do you?”
It wasn’t her place to admit it, to voice any kind of preference at all. But he was asking, and his voice was soft and not at all frightening, and she found herself answering despite her misgivings. “No,” she confessed, squeezing her hands together tightly. “I don’t.”
He patted her leg, and for the first time in her entire life, a master listened to what she wanted.
She didn’t realise it at first. He hadn’t told her to move, hadn’t given her permission to abandon his bed entirely, but he was suddenly leaving the room, returning with an armful of cushions. “Would you prefer to sleep in here, or out there?”
It was a direct question, but it lacked any hint of trickery. He simply seemed to be asking because he wished to know her preference. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, too shocked by his behaviour to know how to react properly.
She wasn’t used to sleeping alone. There were always dormitories, always clusters of other thralls surrounding her, masters just outside the doors to listen for voices or other mischief. He was offering her a respite from that, and she wondered if she should be grateful for the opportunity. But she found that when faced with it, it only made her heart beat faster in apprehension.
The Caern could easily come back while Olivar slept. Or perhaps Master Bendan. And there would be no Olivar to convince them she was good enough to keep, and she could be taken or killed before he had time to wake.
“Here,” she told him, more determined than hesitant. At any time he could decide he disliked her answers and go against them, but at least he would have known she was truthful with him. A deceitful thrall was never worthy of honour.
Olivar nodded, putting down the cushions and tugging at the newly made bed. She frowned in confusion, wondering why he was destroying the work he had just completed, but when he knelt on the ground and began fashioning a smaller bed just for her, she understood.
He had heard what she said, and was acting on her desires.
She continued to stare at him, still a little disbelieving that this was happening at all, and he must have felt her appraisal for he glanced back at her, giving her one of his warm smiles. “Better?” he asked, apparently satisfied with the bed he’d made and pulling back the blanket once again.
This time she felt no trepidation as she went to her new place. “Yes,” she answered softly, still a bit overcome that he’d listened to her. It felt much more natural to be so near the floor, but the additional cushions were a luxury she’d never before experienced. She didn’t know where he’d gotten them, and she sincerely hoped that none of his fine furnishings had been damaged at their removal, but as he stood and she was able to settle in properly, she found that she was grateful for his insistence. It was a bit odd at first, her body unused to anything but hard earth, but as she settled, thin blankets tucked under her chin—two of them!—her muscles began to relax, and her eyes had grown sleepy.
Olivar had chuckled, retiring to the small room at the side, presumably to tend to his own necessities before bed.
Her cheeks burned just remembering how had shown her how to use these strange new facilities, her bright red colouring mirrored by his ever growing green.
But they’d managed.
Just like they had now, when he’d decided not to make her sleep in his bed.
And sleep had come quickly once he’d returned, the room too quiet without his presence. At least, until the suns rose and the room was too bright.
But she still wouldn’t tell him of that. There was nothing for him to do about something as natural as the suns, even if she was terribly unused to them.
Olivar peered down at her in her little bed. “Did you sleep well enough?”
That she could answer honestly, without also speaking of her troubles. “Yes,” she assured him, smoothing down her blankets that had crumpled with sleep. “My thanks for this,” she added, not certain he would like vocal appreciation, but deciding it worth the risk.
Olivar smiled, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. He’d removed the thin cord about his forehead he had worn yesterday, the gesture fluid and natural. Was he unused to wearing the cord? She wondered, but did not ask.
“I want you to be comfortable here, Ness,” Olivar reminded her. “I hope you can believe that.”
She wasn’t sure she did, not fully anyway, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. So she merely nodded and waited to see what he wanted her to do today.
Olivar sighed, leaning against the wall of the bedroom, continuing to look at her. “Are you hungry?” he asked finally.
She was hungry, but his tone suggested he was already a bit frustrated, and it made her stomach clench uncomfortably. She wanted him pleased, yet evidently she’d failed in something already. The peacefulness she’d awoken with began to fade, trepidation replacing it.
“Yes,” she managed to get out, her throat tight. “But I can...” she stopped. She didn’t know the least thing about cooking for herself, let alone for him. Those were skills that would have been taught when she had honour enough to be considered for a family’s service. But she was far from that, and yet here she was, living in a master’s personal home and with no way to cook for him or for herself. The reminder left her feeling despondent, and when Olivar shook his head and suggested she make use of the small bathing room instead, she was grateful.
It allowed her to nurse her embarrassments in private, trying to wash it away with more of his cloths as she scrubbed down her body. This at least she liked about her new placement. There was something right about these matters being seen to when all alone, no master near or even watching. She felt a little more ashamed that she’d never managed to compose herself long enough to finish tailoring Master Olivar’s clothes to her size, so she replaced the too-big clothes, her own from the Narada still out on the line. They were likely dry by now, but she was hesitant to go and fetch them. Olivar had been clear he preferred her to wear what he had given her, and she was reminded that he did not like to remember her time with her previous masters.
She wondered why he had not gotten rid of them outright, but hadn’t commented when he pinned them to the line instead, his mouth a little pinched even as he did it.
A fresh cloth in place—she was incredibly grateful that she’d managed to knot his leggings tightly enough that she hadn’t bled anywhere else—and clothes covering all the things Master Olivar would prefer not to see, she walked quietly back into the main room. She hated to see him cooking for her, even if it was for them, but she hadn’t been given permission to do anything else. So she stood, and she waited, either for a task or to be told to sit at the table. A part of her still wondered at what point he would tell her to sit on the floor instead, when it would be time to reinstate her true place in the world, and the thought made her incredibly nervous. She must have made some noise or movement, for Olivar suddenly looked at her from over his pan, his eyes narrowing.
“You look ready to fall over,” he commented. “Do you feel unwell?” He swallowed, his eyes darting about quickly before he forced himself to look at her properly. “Is it... the bleeding?”
Her cheeks flamed once more. She did not feel terribly well, it was true. A cramp curled through her lower belly, twisting and gripping before it finally released, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before another replaced it.
She wasn’t certain of what answer to give him. It was more than such discomforts that troubled her, but he’d asked after that specifically so it would be wrong to dismiss it—regardless of her own embarrassment.
“There is pain,” she admitted, not entirely certain why that
should bother him. Unless he had truly meant it when he said he wished for her comfort here? She bit her cheek, watching him. He ducked his head pushing around... something with a long handled spoon.
“I do not know what is safe to give you,” he told her apologetically. “I do not know much of medicines in any case.”
She blanched. He thought she was complaining? She certainly hadn’t meant to, nor had she meant to make him feel that he owed her any kind of relief for her discomfort.
But he wasn’t looking at her, didn’t catch the way his words affected her, and he continued to absently muse as he fiddled with their meal. “We should go to the...” he struggled with the word. “Doctor?” he glanced at her then, obviously looking for confirmation. She gave an unsteady nod.
There had been Naradian doctors—to deliver babies, to confirm when thralls had reached maturity. To tell when one had gone beyond healing and could be disposed of.
She shivered a little. She remembered when one of her keepers had dragged her to one, wanting to know why she’d been so slow to begin her bloods and leave girlhood behind. It had been the first time she’d been touched... there, and not even by a warm human hand of a thrall tasked with an implantation, but instead the hard plated hand of a doctor trying to search for abnormalities in her immature womb.
She’d cried, though she’d tried so hard not to. Her keeper had slapped her for it, but the doctor had not even seemed to notice, so focused was he on feeling about her internals.
Ness hugged her arms about herself, not truly aware she’d done so, and Master Olivar gave her a peculiar look. “Do you not want to go? I do not like to think that you are in pain, not if you do not need to be.”
She would go anywhere he wanted her to, surely he knew that by now. Except he still seemed confused by her unquestioning compliance, so perhaps he didn’t. She struggled to find the appropriate words, to voice her willingness while also skirting the truth. She did not want to go, didn’t fully trust that he was merely concerned about her pain, but she couldn’t say those things to him.
Olivar stopped stirring the pan and turned to look at her fully, his eyes appraising her. “You have to help me, Ness,” he said tiredly when she seemingly did not provide whatever answer he was looking for. “I cannot help you if you do not tell me what is wrong.”
He had asked her to help him. She just hadn’t thought that it extended to things like this—to explanations of her wants and desires. That was far more difficult than merely telling him of the needs of her care.
He fiddled with the long handled spoon, still eyeing her. “Did... have you seen a doctor before?”
“Yes,” she answered finally. That was safe to say, and did not reflect her displeasure at the prospect of going to this one. But of course her new master liked to prod, and wanted more of her, her stomach churning unhappily at his next question.
“And you did not like it?”
What did he want her to say? Did he wish to hear the details of the examination? The fear and humiliation she had felt at the invasion, the shameful tears she had shed when she should have remained calm and compliant, her keeper having made it clear that she was to cooperate for the doctor. Any of that would tell him of what a poor thrall she truly was, and she so wished to be good for him—for things to be different here.
But she couldn’t lie. Not when he was looking at her like that, so she forced the words past her unwilling throat, a taste of all she felt, but lacking in detail. “No,” she confirmed, pinching a bit of his—her—tunic between her fingers for comfort. “He... it hurt,” she settled on at last.
Olivar took a step nearer to her before he grimaced, turning back to the forgotten pan and pulling it from the flame. He set it aside and came near to her, patting her shoulder gently with his big hand. “This time will not be like that,” he assured her. “And if anything causes you pain, we can come right home. I will not make you stay, all right?”
As if she would ever tell him, she thought absently. If he wanted her to see this new doctor, then she would. And she would swallow down her fears and any discomforts because that would be tedious for him to witness—especially since he felt the need to offer so many undeserved apologies whenever she showed any sign of upset.
There was a lump in her throat, and no matter how she tried to choke out a confirmation, she failed, so she settled on a nod instead.
“Good,” he said, forcing brightness into his tone. “But after we eat.”
And she watched miserably as he dished up the two plates, her standing uselessly by, acutely aware she had not done a single thing for him, not in the entire time she’d been here.
And that troubled her greatly. For surely his patience would wane, and soon.
He did not want to wait for her to finish sewing his old tunic, but he also did not seem to want her to go out in the knotted clothes she’d been wearing either. Which only left those given to her by the Narada—though he seemed equally displeased with those, frowning deeply at them as he tugged them down from the line. They had dried nicely, perhaps a little stiffly, but she was sure they would soften with wear. Or at least, she hoped they would. Not that her comfort mattered at all.
She was sorry to change out of Master Olivar’s garments. Her old ones felt hot, the fabric heavy. She remembered how uncomfortable she was on the walk here, the heat of the two suns a dreadful thing, and she hoped this venture to the doctor would not take overly long so they wouldn’t be given a chance to rise too high before she was tucked away indoors again.
“Ready?” Olivar asked her when she timidly ventured back into the main room.
“Yes,” she answered, simply because he was obviously expecting one. She didn’t like that he seemed too comfortable waiting for her. No master should be satisfied with that—their time was valuable, and not for a thrall to waste.
But Master Olivar hadn’t complained, and she’d hurried as best she could, though it took a bit longer having to put a new cloth in place.
He had discreetly given her a large bowl to leave the bloodied ones to soak, unable to look at her, or her at him as he’d explained its purpose through stuttered words.
He glanced down at her bare feet, frowning as he did so. “I cannot offer you a pair of mine,” he told her almost regretfully. “There’s simply no hope you could walk in them.” He raised one of his feet, his expression apologetic as he waited for her to understand. His feet were quite large, dwarfing her own considerably.
“I will have to see about buying you a pair, though,” he continued, nodding to himself. “And everything else you will need.” She bit her lip to keep from protesting. She wanted to remind him that her needs were not important. And, most pressingly, that he had lost much in terms of payment by accepting her to begin with. She did not want him to lose even more by sacrificing anything else.
But she also couldn’t contradict him, so she remained silent and felt a twist of guilt at all he was willing to lose, just for her. And an equal stab of fear when he would come to realise how unworthy she was of his generosity.
So she only gave a dim sort of smile at his enthusiasm and let him guide her from the house, first down the stairs and then through the sooty room she didn’t have a name for, and then out into the open.
There were more people than when last she’d walked through the street. Many gave her peculiar looks, whispers following, but she made sure not to let her gaze linger too long on any of them. Just because Olivar had decided he didn’t want to be known as a master didn’t mean that the rest of his people shared his view.
She tugged a little at her sleeve, knowing it was right to be so covered, but already she felt hot and confined compared to what she’d been allowed to wear yesterday. She forced herself to stop fidgeting though, lest Master Olivar notice and it embarrass him.
“There is a market two streets over,” he was telling her, “we can stop in after we see the doctor. Assuming you are feeling well enough.” He glanced at her with another of his smile
s, a sympathetic thing that was completely foreign in a master’s face. He walked at her side rather than in front of her. It felt terribly inappropriate, but she did not correct him. She wasn’t a mistress, wasn’t anyone important that he should keep step with her rather than lead her wherever he intended for them to go. Her foot met a stray stone and she felt a sharp stab, and she had to bite her cheek hard to keep in her gasp. If he’d been walking ahead as he was meant to, she could have quickly tended to the stone and hurried to catch up, but as it was she had to keep walking or else he’d have to wait for her.
And he’d done quite enough of that already during her time with him.
After about a dozen steps more she managed to scrape the stone away, though a burning sting remained that suggested some injury had occurred.
She did not know how far they had to go before seeing the doctor, but with the pain in her foot, her nerves at having to go to him began to give way to her desire to simply get there. She wanted to favour her foot, but that would be weakness and a complaint, and she knew better than that.
They neared a large building nestled amongst a few others, a sign dangling from its front with a faded picture of some sort of animal she could not name. She frowned when that was where Olivar chose to stop, his hand forming a fist as he knocked firmly at the closed door.
They did not have long to wait, a man appearing in the doorway. He said something in greeting that she did not understand, his eyes drifting about Master Olivar in assessment.
Olivar smiled but took a step back, gesturing toward her instead. “No, not today,” he answered, apparently continuing to insist the Naradian tongue be used in her presence. The doctor looked surprised, but did not openly refuse, his attention going to her instead. His expression grew far more serious as he looked over her form, and her earlier nerves returned, her stomach tensing uncomfortably as she forced herself to be still and allow him to look.
“I had heard of your... acquisition,” the doctor said slowly, the language clear but the words slightly disjointed—almost as if he did not use it often, which was likely the case. She was a little surprised so many knew the language at all.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 10
