And though he said just a little while, it felt like an eternity before she heard footsteps again on the stairs, though this time not the hurried ones that had left here, but calm and measured.
And perhaps a bit hesitant.
She stared at the door, willing it to remain closed unless Olivar would be the one to appear through it, but she was not as fortunate as that.
There was a knock against the wood, but it opened shortly thereafter when none came to give admittance.
“Olivar?” Master Bendan called, and she bit her cheek, wholly uncertain of what she should do. He would soon see her readily enough when he stepped fully through the doorway, but she did not know if she should tell him of his brother’s absence or wait until she was asked directly.
She didn’t know him, not really, and what she did know meant that he disapproved of her, of her place here in his brother’s home.
He stepped through, glancing about until his attention settled on her. He frowned and took another few steps nearer, but stopped and looked about the room again. “Is my brother at home?”
She shook her head, certain she must look frightful. Her face felt hot and puffy, her eyes swollen from her tears. There would be no mistaking what she’d been doing, no pretending that she was a good thrall that remained composed regardless of the circumstances. “No,” she answered past her sore throat, in case he liked vocal responses.
Master Bendan appeared distinctly uncomfortable, taking another hesitant step forward. “Are you well? You... you do not appear to be.”
The reminder of her hand and her subsequent abandonment made tears prickle anew, but she tried her best to keep them within. “I burned my hand,” she answered him, trying desperately not to cry, yet failing miserably.
“Oh,” Master Bendan muttered, looking terribly awkward as he shuffled his feet and eyed the door. She wouldn’t mind if he left, or if he waited downstairs until Olivar returned, but never would she actually suggest it. But perhaps if she hinted...
“Olivar went to the doctor,” she told him, glancing at her hand and the water still leaking over it. Would Master Bendan be angry for the waste?
She didn’t expect him to come nearer, her heart racing with nerves as she felt his approach, a looming presence that was not at all comforting like his brother’s. She wondered why that was. Her trust should not be so easily bought and yet... yet it seemed that Olivar had succeeded. At least a little.
Ness flinched when his hand reached out, suppressing a whimper. She did not know what he intended, wasn’t really sure she wanted to know, but it made it all the more clear to her that she had been right to insist on remaining with Olivar all this time. And she didn’t care if downstairs was sooty and hot from the forge. She would find a way to be useful down there, so long as it meant she was always within his line of sight.
She wasn’t wholly successful at suppressing her cry when he touched her, his hand gripping her wrist. He looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “Does that hurt?”
She shook her head, more frightened than pained.
She half expected him to press his thumb along the burn, a punishment for the tension forged between him and his brother because of her. She braced herself for it, her breath coming in quick little gasps.
But the touch never came.
He twisted her wrist, the better to see her palm, and he made a hum of what almost sounded like sympathy. “I had a burn once,” he told her, his voice soft. It almost sounded like Olivar’s when he was trying to soothe her. She peeked up at him warily. “The skin bubbled something awful, but Mandar set it to rights. He will do the same for you.”
He glanced down at her. “Is your skin supposed to shrivel like that?”
She sniffled, turning back to her hand. It was pale and unused to being soaked for so long. “No,” she admitted, hanging her head.
“Here now,” Master Bendan said, turning to the cupboards and rifling through them, obviously looking for something specific. He evidently succeeded for he brought a bowl and a cloth. He placed the bowl in the basin so as to catch the remaining water that trickled over her palm, retrieving it once it was full. He submerged the cloth, then finally he turned off the water entirely.
With the steady stream gone, her hand began to throb again, but she bit her lip to hold in her complaints.
He did not ask, not like Olivar would have done, but simply took hold of her hand and wrapped the drenched cloth about the reddened stripe on her palm, gesturing for her to hold it fast.
She did so, the pain still there, but dulled to reasonable amounts.
“That is what I did for it until Mandar could tend to it,” he finally said, leaning against the counter and watching her. “Hope it helps for you too.”
She sniffed again, surprised that he was being kind to her. “You have my thanks,” she told him softly, and found that she meant it. Perhaps this hadn’t been a necessary intervention, not when Olivar would be returning soon, but a small part of her began to ease that perhaps despite his misgivings toward her, he would not try to hurt her outright, with or without his brother’s presence.
Master Bendan opened his mouth, to say what she couldn’t begin to guess, but he closed it again when hurried footsteps clamoured up the steps, the door swinging open with a bang as a harried Olivar rushed through. He halted upon seeing his brother, and Ness fidgeted a little with the bowl and cloth, uncertain if he would be upset that she had not remained exactly as he’d put her.
“Brother,” Master Bendan greeted with a nod. “I was trying to make Ness more comfortable.”
Olivar glanced in her direction, and she did not know what expression to give him. Should she be sorry for listening to another master that was not her keeper? Not with the Narada, certainly, though even there it was difficult to navigate these sorts of situations. More frequently than not they ended in a punishment.
Olivar came forward, not giving his brother a greeting in return, and she eyed him worriedly. He seemed... tense, and it made her leery when he pushed the fresh bowl of water back on the counter and uncovered her palm.
It was blistering already, a gruesome puffiness overtaking some of the skin, and she looked away before she panicked again.
“This may hurt,” he warned, producing a jar of pungent smelling salve, taking a generous finger full and smearing it across her palm.
She couldn’t help from crying out, for the contact was excruciating. He had to keep a firm grip on her wrist, as tight a hold as he’d ever used on her. She tried to will herself to be still, to submit, but despite her best efforts to remain immobile, her hand seemed to move of its own accord. It should know better. She should know better.
But it hurt.
“I know, Ness,” Olivar whispered softly to her, his voice low and soothing. “Mandar warned about this. He said I should have brought you so that he could be the one to do it.” It was obvious he wished to work quickly, there was an anxiousness in his eyes that was impossible to miss, but each stroke was as gentle as he could make it. “I am so sorry,” he kept repeating. “Please do not hate me for this.”
The last was a nearly silent plea, enough to give her pause. She hiccoughed, the pain beginning to give way to a numbness that was almost pleasant when compared to the persistent throbbing.
If there were any lingering doubts about Olivar being a different sort of master, it was difficult to keep them. Not when his anguish was so apparent, when it clearly disturbed him so greatly that he was the one that was causing her additional discomfort.
He finished with her palm, slick and shiny from the salve, and pulled out a roll of thick, gauzy fabric from his pocket. “He said to cover it or else you might tear the skin,” he informed her, no longer able to look at her.
His hands were shaking.
He was so... odd, this keeper of hers. That he should care so much, that her distress should become his.
But it made her strangely warm inside to witness it, even as she wanted to abolish any sign
of his upset, even as she tried to overcome her own.
“I do not hate you,” she murmured softly, the startling nature of his reaction having pushed away her tears. He was winding the gauze around her hand lightly, and she thought dimly that this would keep her from helping him with meals yet again.
He glanced up at her when she spoke, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t understood, or perhaps not heard her well enough for his expression did not alter. “This was an accident,” she assured him. She did not hold him responsible for it—he could not have known. He already admitted how little he knew of her people, and it would be wrong to hold him accountable for something even she did not anticipate.
“You could just be saying that,” he grumbled out, turning back to his work on her hand. “I doubt you would have given blame to any of your Naradian masters either even when they beat you bloody.” There was such a bitterness in his voice that for a moment she almost did not know him. She swallowed, suddenly nervous, not appreciating the reminder of how little she truly knew him.
Even when at times it was so easy to feel as if she did.
She did not know how to answer that, not when it was partly true. Resentment led to discontent, which eventually could lead to open rebellion.
And that, without fail, would mean death.
So blame was a futile thing, hatred for a master a useless disease that spread and corrupted.
But this wasn’t like that. Not at all.
But that made it no easier to explain to him, either.
It did not help that Master Bendan was watching them, though he tried to be subtle with his stares. But there was no mistaking the turn of his head, the prickly feeling on her skin whenever his attention would linger, first on her and then his brother. She did not know what he was thinking, and she certainly would not pretend to, but it made words stick in her throat, even when she wanted desperately to force them out.
Olivar needed to hear them, needed to know that she thought he was different. Not the same as her—she absolutely could not believe that they were of the same status and that she should be treated as such. But... he was not cruel. He did not like to see her hurt. And that was very dear to her.
But she did not know if Master Bendan would agree with her brother’s kindness, and she did not want him to get in further trouble with the Caern.
He tucked the end of the bandage into one of the folds, giving it a light tug to see that it would stay in place. “I will heat some water,” he told her, standing at his full height. “Mandar suggested you take more of your herbs for the pain.”
She nodded, hating the despondent look on his face. And before she realised what she’d done, she reached out with her good hand, laying it softly on his arm. He was her keeper until the Caern said otherwise. It was his feelings that mattered most.
“I do not blame you,” she began, looking up at him as she knew he liked. “Because if you had known it could happen, you never would have allowed it.”
He stared down at her, studying her for sign of untruth, and though protocol dictated she lower her gaze when being assessed by a master, she did not.
Because this keeper had a different set of rules. Ones far more important than those her old masters had taught her through fear and pain and blood.
And though it was hard, and so terribly confusing, she was going to try.
For him.
And it made her resolve all the firmer when he gave her one of his smiles, perhaps still a little pained by sympathy, but no longer anguished. “I do not like to see you hurt,” he reminded her.
“I know,” she answered back.
Because she did.
Even if that still felt too incredible to be real.
10. Equal
“You are very good with her,” Master Bendan said to Olivar, still watching them both carefully.
Ness flushed, holding her injured hand to her, uncomfortable around Olivar’s brother. She shouldn’t be, not only because it wasn’t her place to think anything at all about a master, but also because he’d given her no direct cause for her current apprehension. She had been alone with him and he’d only tried to help her, had tried to commiserate by speaking of his own, similar hurt. But her wariness seemed to come whether she wanted it or not, as natural as her need to breathe.
She wondered if it would be all right to excuse herself, to hide away in Olivar’s bedroom until he left, but she was afraid of interrupting. Olivar had invited him here, and therefore his presence was to be welcomed.
Even if she felt like an intruder.
“She is a person, you know,” Olivar reminded him crossly. “You can speak to her.”
Ness glanced at him worriedly, hating the idea of a fight between them. There was still much she did not know about familial relations, but it was never good when there was a quarrel between masters. Least of all for the thralls in their care.
Master Bendan huffed out an annoyed breath. “I am well aware of that, Olivar,” he retorted just as irritably. “We spoke while you were absent. Is that not right, Ness?”
She swallowed, her eyes flitting between the two men. She finally settled on Olivar and she nodded assuredly. “We did,” she confirmed. She wondered if she would have offered confirmation even if they had sat in utter silence. Olivar was her keeper and her loyalty was to be for him first, but to vocally contradict a master...
But she was glad that she did not have to struggle with a falsehood on her conscience, for Master Bendan had been very courteous. But she had grown spoiled by Olivar’s affectionate nature, her admiration for him making his brother’s manner seem almost cool in comparison.
Olivar appeared ready to press her for details of their conversation, but he finally shook his head and took a calming breath. “This is not how I wished to begin,” he tried again, forcing composure into his tone. Ness still sat awkwardly, hoping they would move off to speak privately, or even direct her to leave.
Neither gave such an order, and her stomach tightened further in discomfort.
But Olivar was true to his word and set a pot to boil water, and with a swell of relief she realised that meant she would be expected to fetch her pouch of herbs. She waited for him to tell her to do so, but he was fiddling with the pot and a spoon, and seemed to be avoiding both her and his brother entirely, so she stood, pausing only for a moment to see if either objected. Master Bendan did not even seem to notice her movement, too preoccupied with staring at his brother to care much for her. That was quite all right with her.
She would not be gone long, even if she wished to dawdle. She hadn’t received direct permission for this, but she wasn’t going to make Olivar fetch it either.
“Then perhaps we should start again,” Master Bendan replied to him at last, when it was clear Olivar did not intend to speak again. They both seemed a little calmer, a little more ready to speak civilly to one another, and that comforted her as she slipped into the bedroom and allowed the door to swing closed behind her, relishing the momentary quiet.
She eyed her pile of cushions wistfully, wishing she could dive beneath the blankets and nurse her wounded hand and frayed nerves in private, but she forced herself to push away such fantasies and instead take the pouch out from beneath the bottommost cushion. She wasn’t hiding it, not exactly. But Olivar had been insistent that it was hers to manage, and she did not want her things out in the open. Perhaps she would take to tucking it away in the trunk now with the rest of her things.
It still amazed her that she had things at all, to hide away or otherwise.
And while Olivar had made it clear that he was happy to give them, she would ensure she kept them neat and tidy. She didn’t want to be a bother, and she wouldn’t let her things become so either. At least not when she could help it.
She held the pouch tightly in her good hand, the contents lighter than when she’d received it. She did not know how long she’d have to take it for the pain in her hand, how long a burn took to fully heal, or at least when th
e ache might begin to dissipate, and she bit her lip as she thought of what would happen the next time her blood came. It had been a luxury to not have to feel every cramp, ever twinge of her womb as it wrung itself dry, and she would be sorry when there were no more herbs to numb away such pains.
She smiled grimly at the pouch. If she was being honest with herself, her fretting was not truly about her next blood—she simply wished to keep away from the awkwardness beyond that door for as long as she possibly could.
She opened the door slowly, peeping out to taste the tone of the room.
Neither had moved from their place near the stove, though she noticed three cups had been placed upon the counter. Surely an offer such as that meant things would improve.
But she knew so little of bonds between masters.
“But is your loyalty to me or to the Caern?” Olivar asked, his tone accusatory.
Or perhaps things would be as tense as she feared.
“That is unfair,” Master Bendan answered stiffly. “You know how I care for you. We may only share half our blood, but you are my brother in whole. Yet he is our Caern, and I was concerned. Surely you can understand that.”
Olivar frowned at him. “You could have come to me first. Given me time with her. I still do not know what he wishes done about the situation, and he was... less than pleased when he left.”
Master Bendan sighed deeply. “I am sorry to hear it,” he replied sincerely. “And if I was given the opportunity to act differently, I would do so. But I cannot change what is past, no matter how I might wish it.”
Olivar was silent for a long while, and she bit her lip, contemplating what to do. Neither had noticed her yet, and she wondered if it would be wrong to slip back into the bedroom to wait, but she supposed if they truly intended for this to be private, they would use the language of the Onidae.
“It is all right, Ness,” Olivar called to her, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can come back.”
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 16
