Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  Was Master Olivar about to be killed too?

  Her heart beat quickly, and she glanced backward. The path was open, the attention of these new masters solely focused in their argument with Master Olivar, and she could probably slip away unnoticed...

  And do what?

  She did not know how to forage. She did not know how to construct a proper shelter. She would be consigning herself to simply another kind of death, one of her own making.

  And she did not want to die, despite everything.

  The arguing stopped, and Master Olivar touched her arm, drawing her attention back to him. He huffed out an irritated breath, but he smoothed his features quickly enough, smiling once again. Why he was wasting such expressions on her, she couldn’t begin to imagine. “They will come around,” he told her.

  She stared at the collar of his tunic blankly, not sure why he was telling her this. She thought they had the right of it. She had not been a good bargain, and he was the one that would be disappointed once he knew more of her.

  “Are you ready?”

  For what?

  But before she could answer, he gripped her by the arms and her breath caught in her throat, wholly unprepared to be hoisted over the side of the boat and deposited inside.

  He set her down as gently as he could, but still she crumpled, huddling into a tight ball as she waited for the world to stop moving.

  Except that it didn’t, not entirely.

  The boat was large enough to hold them all and presumably the cargo it had carried. Master Bendan deposited a heavy sack near her, giving her a peculiar look before he entered the boat as well. It rocked, just a little, but it was enough to make her whimper in fright.

  Master Olivar entered, settling down next to her. “Ness?” he questioned, touching her back softly with his large hand. “We are not going to capsize. Truly. See? We are already steadying.”

  It was true. Now that everyone was in and settled, the rocking ceased. And she remembered she was expected to row so they could continue on their way. She was delaying them.

  She scrambled up, looking about as she tried to find an empty seat. There was a small space next to Master Olivar, thick sticks with wide ends settled on the floor by his feet. She stared at them, her brow furrowed as she tried to discern their purpose.

  Something had to move the boat, as it did not seem to want to do anything on its own. Now that everyone was aboard, it merely sat within the water, nothing propelling it toward where her new masters apparently lived.

  Did the sticks help in some way?

  One of the other masters was lifting one, confirming that these were important to the process. She bit her lip worriedly. They looked heavy, and the length of them made her question how she was to manoeuvre one by herself.

  But she would try. She didn’t want to be thrown over the side to drown.

  She poked at one before she gripped her hand around it, trying her best to lift it. It yielded, a least a bit, but she was right about its weight.

  “Ness? What are you doing?”

  She closed her eyes. She was doing it wrong, and he noticed.

  And to make it all worse, all of the new masters were looking at her. She turned her eyes back to her lap, her cheeks burning and her humiliation biting hotly at her belly. Did he truly want her to answer him? They seemed a more vocal people than the Narada, so likely he did. But suddenly being left to drown did not seem so very terrible. Not when she had clearly done something so very wrong already. “You said... you said to row,” she answered quietly. She would have made it softer still, but she had been slapped many times for speaking below the register of a master, and she did not want to be hit.

  Master Olivar frowned, even as the rest of the masters released amused chuckles.

  She bowed her head further.

  Master Olivar barked something at them she could not understand, and he was suddenly grasping her arms again, and she panicked, thinking surely he was going to toss her overboard after all. She forced herself not to struggle, not to plead, but it was so hard.

  Except the direction was wrong, and she found herself placed in the space beside him. Not hurt, not scrambling through water, but merely sitting.

  Tears prickled, but she tried her best to keep any from falling. She was embarrassed enough already.

  “I did not mean you,” Master Olivar was telling her, giving her a soft nudge. “You can just sit here with me. And try not to mind the others. These are heavy and, well... you are rather a little thing.”

  She was still confused as to why she wasn’t dying at the moment, especially when he revealed she was too small to be useful. She bit at her cheek, more confused than ever.

  And then the masters were picking up the long oars, swinging them to the sides with ease before clipping them to the rails. Then the craft pushed away from the shore and into the middle of the river, lurching and groaning for just a moment before it smoothed into the deeper waters.

  “See? It is not too bad,” Master Olivar was telling her, and she reminded herself that he had told her not to be frightened, and she tried to school her features lest they reveal any of her trepidation. True to his word, they had not toppled over, and the motion of the boat was smoother than she had expected. They were almost... drifting. And it was not unpleasant, in its way. The boat lurched forward as the men began to work in tandem, pushing and pulling the oars with seemingly little effort.

  “So what was your job for the Narada?” one of the masters suddenly asked. She wanted to pretend that he had not addressed her, but that would do little good when surely her silence would be seen as inattention. She did not know his full name and he did not offer it, which was all right with her. At least that felt a bit more familiar. She hunched a little further, not wanting to answer but knowing she must.

  She turned slightly in her seat so that her voice would carry back to him without raising it overmuch. She wasn’t to bother the other masters simply because one had asked something of her. “I... I mended,” she replied. That was a truth, for she had not accomplished her other task. Not in the least. Her stomach still clenched just to think of it.

  He scrunched his nose, eyeing her curiously. She watched his arms, bulky just as were all the new masters’. Their tunics lacked sleeves, and she wondered if that was to better show their strength for any who would dare question them. It certainly worked for her—there was no doubting they were all terribly intimidating. “Mended what?”

  Her cheeks burned. She should have been clearer from the start. “Clothes and blankets mostly. I... I hadn’t learned how to do shoes yet.” Would that be a problem? Each of the masters wore thick boots, their feet long to support their large frames. She had never received a pair of shoes herself. Only established thralls received such things as they often had to tend to tasks outside the tunnels. Mining thralls also were given foot coverings, lest the sharp rocks tear at their sensitive soles, and such sores could lead to festering. A slave who could not walk was of very little use, after all.

  Another master piped up, nodding his head in what she hoped was approval. “She could mend sail,” he mused. “Guess that is better than nothing at all.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, if only a little. Master Olivar looked at her rather strangely, and she told herself not to move anymore if it bothered him. “I did not bring her so we could put her to work,” he grumbled.

  Her relief faded. So she had not found a purpose after all—not one that he approved of, anyway. Which allowed her imagination to conjure all sorts of possibilities for what he might have in mind, each less desirable than the last.

  She wrapped her arms about herself, trying not to dwell on it anymore. She allowed the gentle sway of the boat to draw her focus, allowed her eyes to close against the heat and the sharp light of the suns. It was worse as it reflected against the water, her head throbbing dreadfully. It was hot, and for the first time she wished the Narada did not make them wear so many layers.

  Master Olivar gave he
r a nudge, and her eyes flew open. Had she missed something important?

  “You do not look well,” he informed her, and she chided herself for any expression that might have slipped out. “Some have trouble on the water at first,” he eyed the nearly still river dubiously. “Does your stomach feel sick?”

  She didn’t know if she would have confessed it even if she did, but while it was a tight ball of anxiousness, it did not feel overly unwell. “No,” she assured him, wondering why he should express any concern at all. Perhaps he wanted to be certain she wouldn’t sick up all over his boat and boots. That seemed reasonable. “I will not mess anything.”

  He shook his head, sighing a little, but did not ask her anything else. She almost wished he would for his face looked pinched, his displeasure apparent. At least if he spoke she could hope to figure out precisely what she’d said wrong. But she could not force him, and hers was not to question.

  “So if she won’t mend sails, what are you going to let her do?” one of the masters asked the man beside her. “You have not thought this through at all, have you? You needed your portion to fix your lady. And I do not intend to give you some of mine because you were feeling charitable.”

  Ness hadn’t known that she would be gaining a mistress along with Master Olivar, but her concern sharpened. She had never served one of those before. Thralls were kept to the masters until they proved their worth, and she certainly had not done that. She wanted to shift a little away from him in case he realised his mistake and grew angry with her—but a master couldn’t make a mistake, could he? Yet moving so that would bring her nearer to Master Bendan, and he had not given her permission to be so close.

  “I will make do,” Master Olivar bit out, clearly displeased at having to speak of the subject further. “And I did not ask for your input.”

  Ness peeked about to see the other masters’ reactions. Some chuckled, others looked cross at his dismissal, and she wondered what that would mean for her. It was not uncommon that a thrall would bear the brunt of any passing disgruntlement, and she wanted to hide under the seat-bench rather than have any direct their ire at her.

  But Master Olivar had put her here, and she could not leave it until he told her to do so.

  There was little conversation the rest of the journey. It lasted longer than she would have expected, both suns hot and oppressive, and she longed for the dark corners of even the isolation rooms. Her mouth was parched, her stomach reminded her that her meal had been missed, and overall she did not like her new position. She might not have been hurt yet, but that meant little. Perhaps they did not know that she needed food, needed water, and she was unused to going without either. Her body had to be cared for so it would fulfil its purpose.

  Except that even then, it didn’t.

  Perhaps this was the punishment after all.

  The river widened, opening to an even larger pool, spanning nearly the scope of the horizon. She blinked at it in surprise, never imagining that such a thing existed, but she regretted it immediately after she felt another lash of pain through her head.

  She hoped her eyes would adjust soon, otherwise she would not need one of the masters to fill her new life with hurts—her body was providing plenty on its own.

  They held close to the shore, their destination becoming rather obvious. There were many more of these boats, some smaller, many much larger. So tall were some that she would have to crane her neck to view their tops properly, but she was not as curious as all that.

  They docked, thick ropes tying the boat to a wooden structure built out into the water, and the masters jumped out with expert ease.

  She wasn’t sure if she should try doing the same, but before she could decide, Master Olivar was picking her up again as he exited the boat, and he continued to keep hold of her until her feet grew used to being on a steady surface again.

  She still did not know why he gave her such consideration. She would well picture one of the old masters kicking her out of the boat and then punishing her for not getting up fast enough. But Master Olivar was evidently a patient man, at least with what she had seen of him thus far. Yet she was certainly not going to test the boundaries of his good will.

  Master Bendan had picked up the large sack given to him by the Narada, and he looked at Master Olivar somewhat sadly. “You do not have to rush home, you know. But it seems cruel to make you watch me divvy out the portions when you won’t be getting any.” He was frowning by the end, and his thick fingers fiddled with the tie holding the sack closed.

  “Bendan,” Master Olivar cautioned with a shake of his head. “This was a choice I made, and I still feel it was the right one. I will not take any of yours—it is because of me that each of you will receive less than was promised already.”

  Ness flinched. He was not exactly wrong, as a master never could be, but it skirted the truth just a little. He had agreed to the bargain, but she was not so dense so as not to realise that she was the one truly responsible. These other masters were right to be angry if they were denied payment because of her.

  She hung her head, waiting for the brothers to finish their talk and trying to give as much privacy as she could. She gleaned enough to know that Master Olivar would be missing a traditional gathering, and he was at least a little sorry for it. It made her stomach hurt, and she worried for what his mood might be when they were alone and he recognised how poor a deal he had made.

  Perhaps the mistress would distract him. She heard rumour that they were good for such things, and that assigned thralls suffered fewer hurts.

  Or was that because only the best thralls lived to see an assignment at all?

  She did not know. Her head still hurt terribly behind her eyes, and she almost wondered if Master Olivar would be angry with her if she leaned down to take a drink from the river, her throat was so parched. He probably would. It would be acting without permission, and that never resulted in anything good.

  “Ready?” he asked her. Master Bendan had wandered off with the others, and though there was more of his kind mingling about the other boats, none seemed to pay them much mind.

  She nodded simply because he seemed to expect her to. She tried to keep the weariness from her expression, but she wasn’t certain she fully succeeded. Her suspicion was confirmed when she felt his blunt fingers at her chin, tipping her head back so he could look at her better. His thumb came and skimmed across her lips, and she startled at the gesture.

  He removed the digit quickly, smiling at her a little sheepishly. It was an odd thing to be directed at her, but much of his reactions were strange to her. She hoped she would come to understand him better quickly. Perhaps then the tight, panicky feeling would begin to dissipate.

  “You do not look well,” he remarked ruefully. “What do you need? I fear I do not know much about how to care for one of your kind.”

  She blinked, never expecting such an enquiry. There was much that currently ailed her, but she did not want to burden him with the entire list. She wanted to deny her troubles completely lest he think her a weak, useless thrall that was not worth the effort to maintain, but that would be lying. She tried to decide which of her complaints was most pressing.

  “It is... hot,” she said, feeling almost as if she was doing wrong even to confess that. “I was not allowed outside often.”

  If he realised she had told him that she had not performed well enough to receive such a privilege, he did not show it.

  She did not expect him to duck his head, almost appearing embarrassed. “Of course,” he muttered to himself, frustration seeping into his tone.

  She chided herself for having spoken at all. Clearly lying would have been the better choice if even that one admission annoyed him. But before she could decide if it was worth risking an apology, to assure him that she was simply a stupid sort of thrall who complained too much, he was gesturing for her to follow him. “We do not have to go far,” he assured her. “And it is much cooler at home, you will see. I do not want you to
be uncomfortable.”

  She nodded again. If there was something she needed, he did not wish to hear of it, and she would have to decide on better answers if ever he tested her again by asking of her wellbeing. It was something, at least, to know a little more of what he expected of her.

  She still grew extremely nervous to think of going to his home—of meeting the mistress and what she might be like. She was confused by what the other master had said about the lady needing fixing, but there was much she did not understand yet.

  But she would try.

  She just hoped she would prove more proficient in whatever these people required than she had for the others. She did so wish to be a good thrall, even if her belly filled with dread at what might soon be asked of her.

  Because she was absolutely certain she would not survive failing another master.

  3. Stay

  These dwellings were nothing like what she had known with the Narada. There were no tunnels, only wide paths under open sky with buildings flanked on either side. People milled about freely, lines of cord strewn between shelters allowing clothing to dry in the breeze. There were women also, and she swallowed thickly when she realised what they were. They were nearly as tall as the men, their bodies appearing strong as well, though perhaps lacking some of the bulkiness. It was little wonder that the masters questioned her usefulness as she appeared weak and sickly in comparison to these women.

  The pathways themselves were not even earth, but some kind of carefully cut stonework that seemed almost too fine to walk upon. They also held the heat of the suns well, stinging at her feet as she hurried across it. She longed for normalcy, for hard earth and cool dirt, but at the very least Master Olivar kept their pace brisk, evidently determined to see them home quickly. She tried not to be too nervous, but failed miserably.

  They kept walking until the path came to an end, a lone building remaining. It was strange to enter a dwelling not carved from soil and clay, but Master Olivar entered with confidence, so apparently this was to be the new custom. These walls seemed to be fashioned from wood, bits of metal interspersed here and there in ways she did not understand. There were even holes cut in the walls, seemingly on purpose, daylight streaming through and lighting the room.