She did not know what she expected his home to look like, but this was not it. There was a huge hearth on the furthest side, large stones constructing an obvious home for the fire that flickered there. It did not seem safe for it to burn so when no one was about to tend it, but perhaps the mistress was good with flame-keep. She looked about, trying to spy the woman who would be her first mistress, but there was no one.
There were all sorts of metalwork strewn about, far more than she had seen in her life. The Narada had metal things, weapons mostly, but also more commonplace items like lanterns. But none of those were for touching, unless expressly directed, and she would have to manoeuvre this space carefully lest she inadvertently touch something forbidden.
They did not linger in that room, for which she was grateful. Though the fire was low, it was still enough to heat the space much more than she would have liked, especially given how overheated she already felt. Master Olivar continued toward a stair, gesturing for her to follow. She did, her own steps hesitant. There was a group of swords mingling together in a barrel, the hilts covered in strips of leather so as not to harm the wielder’s hands. She swallowed, her heart beating almost painfully. What sort of place was this?
“It is not tidy, I am aware,” Master Olivar said, watching her from a few steps up. “We were slightly hurried this morning and...” he ran a hand through his curly hair, almost awkwardly. He caught himself with a grimace, halting the gesture and forcing his hand back down at his side. She wondered if it was rude to touch one’s hair, and that’s why he stopped himself. She resolved to keep from touching hers just in case. His own much shorter hair was confined by a leather cord tied about his forehead, and she realised that the other masters wore something similar. It suited them, she thought, but chided herself for forming an opinion of it.
She thought it curious that he should feel the need to note the state of the room aloud. Did he intend for her to clean it? Black soot was settled on most of the surfaces, and she thought it would be a rather satisfying task to clear all of that away until nothing but gleaming silver and polished stone remained.
But he clearly was uncomfortable with its state so she would not comment on it, even to offer to rectify the mess.
When she reached the first step he sighed, turning and climbing the rest of them himself, glancing back to make sure she was following. It wasn’t necessary as she certainly was not about to wander away without permission, but from what she had gathered from Master Bendan, they did not have thralls of their own—at least not until now—and perhaps he wasn’t yet certain of her obedience.
She would show him, though, she determined. She would be better for this master than she had been for the last.
There was a closed door at the top of the stairs, and when he opened it and waited for her to pass through, she understood why it had been so. It was much cleaner here, the warmth and soot apparently respecting the boundary of the doorway. It was cooler here by far, and though her mouth reminded her of her thirst, she at last did not feel quite so desperate to be away from the heat.
“Better, yes?” he asked her, shuffling his feet as he looked about the room. He glanced at her frequently, almost expectantly, and she wished she knew what he was waiting for. He wasn’t moving, so neither did she, and since he had grown awkward as she looked about downstairs, she decided it would be best simply to study the floor in front of her until she was instructed to do something else.
However, a heavy sigh at her side made her worry she had chosen wrongly. “Ness? Could you... say something, please?”
She opened her mouth to obey, but no words came out. She didn’t know what was safe to say, and she wished desperately she had been a good enough thrall to have been a household slave before now. Perhaps that experience would have prepared her better for this. “What...” she swallowed, trying again. “What would you like me to say?”
He groaned, and she flinched, the sound immediately ceasing at her reaction. But instead of growing angry as she suspected, she received an apology instead. “Sorry,” he told her, taking a step toward her. She kept still as was expected, and did not cringe when he lifted her chin once more. “Would you look at me?” he asked her softly, and she obliged immediately, despite her discomfort.
“This is my home,” he continued, smiling at her when her eyes flickered to meet his as he so clearly wanted. “And yours too, if you will have it.”
Her anxiousness grew. Perhaps she was mistaken, and they did have thralls of their own—perhaps by a different name, or a different kind, but essentially the same. This must be some sort of formal acceptance into a household, wherein she was likely meant to vow her loyalty and pledge her commitment to the family she served.
“I will,” she promised him. “And you will be my master,” as would all the others of his kind, but she would not mention that. It didn’t seem important in a household vow. “And your lady will be my mistress.” She hoped that was good enough for she didn’t know what else to say. She kept looking at him as instructed, disappointment flooding her when his face clouded and he frowned deeply at her.
Had she said the words wrong? She bit her cheek hard, wishing her old masters had trained her in the ways of others if they had ever intended to give her to one of them. It took every bit of will not to move away, to continue to look at him when she was absolutely certain she would soon receive the first taste of his harshness.
“Ness,” he began, shaking his head and smoothing his finger down her cheek. He looked at it oddly, and belatedly she realised that a tear must have leaked out. Why did she have to do everything so wrong?
She held in her sniffles, forced away the rest of her tears—as clear a confession of her confusion as any word she might have uttered. “That is not what I meant. And you... you have no need to cry.”
She nodded her understanding. She would stop. Truly she would.
And she had obviously been wrong and he had not meant to pledge her to his household. She had overstepped yet again, had assumed worth that was not hers, and she could not seem to keep her body still. She knelt, bowing her head and whispering apologies quietly, half-hoping that he could not hear them at all in case he did not wish to receive them.
He knelt beside her, and she bowed lower, determined that in this she would do rightly. It was not difficult to remain beneath his height, but she would not risk anything. She felt fingers skim across her shoulder, and she shivered, wondering if he was trying to assess how many lashes she could safely take. Or not so safely, if he so chose.
But the fingers hurriedly retreated, and she did not miss the huff of frustration that came from him. She wanted to cry in earnest, but he had told her not to, and she would not disobey.
“I do not know what to do for you,” he confessed. She could not decide if he sounded more exasperated or mournful. Surely it couldn’t be anything but the former.
They sat in silence for a while, Master Olivar never leaving or even rising from his place before her. Her knees ached, her back protested the angle, but she did not move. Not until he did and made clear what he wanted of her.
He was the one that spoke first, as rightfully he should, this time his tone cautious. “Ness,” he tried again, this time not touching her. “Would you... help me?”
Her head lurched upward. Her shoulders relaxed, and she sat a little easier, ready to receive his command.
He did reach out then, touching her chin lightly and she did not hesitate before looking at him again. She did not know why he relied on touch when a simple command would do, but perhaps his people were more physical than the Narada and preferred their orders to be accompanied by contact. She worried what that might mean for other things, but pushed the thought away firmly. She could not fret about what she did not know—there was simply too much now that she would be soon be overwhelmed if she dwelled upon it all.
He was smiling at her, a little grimly, a little sadly, and she wondered at the expression. Was he already noticing that she was
a poor thrall? Probably. That made her want to cry even more.
“I would try to explain that I am not your... your master, but I do not think you are ready to believe that.”
She blinked at him mildly. He seemed in earnest, but she was confident that it was another mistaken translation. He was right, of course, that he was not as her other masters had been. She did not know the name for his people, but they were certainly not the Narada. But that made him no less her master.
He sighed again, and she frowned, if just a bit. She wanted him to be pleased with her, but apparently it was universal that she should be a disappointment to the master she served. It made her want to tuck herself into a tight ball, to hide away until she could be something better, but she didn’t know how. If all of her masters’ training had not taught her how to be good, what hope was there of her figuring it out for herself?
Master Olivar tried again, tapping at her shoulder lightly, evidently trying to ensure she was paying attention to him. He made a strange noise at the back of his throat and he shifted his position slightly. She wondered if his legs were sore from remaining in that spot for so long. But if he was, surely he would move. There was no reason for him to remain so, especially not because of her.
“I do not...” the strange noise again. Almost a cough, but not quite. “I do not know how to care for you, and it... it is important to me that you be treated well here. There is none else for me to ask, you see? So I would be... grateful... if you could speak to me and tell me such things yourself.”
There was no denying that sounded reasonable. The Narada had been the masters for generations, so there was absolutely no need for the input of a thrall. And though it felt wrong to even think it... perhaps, just perhaps, Master Olivar was nearly as confused as she. And he had already asked her for help...
And what was her purpose if not to help the master?
“What...” she had to swallow, trying to eek whatever moisture she could into her dry mouth. “What kinds of things would you... want to know?”
The smile he gave her was almost shocking it was so bright. She did not know why her compliance should please him so, especially when there was nothing that should be more expected of her.
“Do you eat? Drink? Sleep? I have only one bed, I’m afraid, but perhaps you do not use one of those anyway.” He spoke quickly, an outpouring of thoughts that had seemingly been rattling about his head in want of answers, and she felt a moment’s guilt that she had not been more forthcoming before now. He should feel free to require things of her, even her words, and it was not acceptable that he did not know that.
“Yes,” she relented, not sure exactly where to direct her words. He liked her to look at him, or at least, he kept insisting she do so, but it felt so wrong to do that while also giving him speech as well. It was too bothersome, too much like what a master would give to another master, and she would not have him thinking she did not understand her place here. So she settled on looking somewhere in the middle, not quite directing her words to the floor as would be her preference. “I do all of those things, if... if you would permit it.”
Master Olivar sighed yet again. “I do... permit it,” he said slowly, his distaste most apparent. The tight knot of worry in her belly gave an uncomfortable pull, and she tried not to think he was already upset that she required so much maintenance. “Do you need anything now?”
He wanted her to ask? She stilled, not sure she could comply, parts of her training warring against one another as she struggled to know what to do. The worst he could do was hurt her, she decided. Maybe kill her, if he saw the infraction as too much. And she was beginning to question if perhaps that wasn’t the preferable outcome. “I would... fetch water, if you could... if I knew where...”
She hadn’t even done that with the Narada. It wasn’t her function, and she’d only accepted what was allotted to her that day. But she would learn, as even more than the stating of it, expecting her new master to get her anything at all seemed the most terrible wrong.
Master Olivar nodded, not looking angry, and she supposed that was something. “You were hot, of course you would be thirsty.” He said the words quietly, almost to himself, and she did not acknowledge them in case she wasn’t meant to hear it at all.
He rose from his place on the floor, and she startled when a hand extended down to her. It didn’t hit, not like she expected, merely waited there for a reason she could not begin to comprehend.
She stared at it blankly, knowing she was taking too long, the knot growing worse when he sighed at her again. “I only wished to help you up,” he told her, and if she was not mistaken, a little sadly.
He wanted to... help her?
She didn’t argue, didn’t take the time to explain that he was apparently very confused about her station here. She had taken too long already, and it was very wrong to keep a master waiting. She extended her hand in return, still not entirely certain that was what he intended, but he made a pleased noise at the movement. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him directly, that was simply too much, and she relaxed a little when he completed the motion instead, taking hold of her hand in his over-large one before pulling her upright. He seemed to expend almost no effort, yet she found herself lurching forward, and his eyes grew wide as he seemed to realise how much force had been applied.
“Sorry!” he mumbled, his tanned skin turning a strange sort of green at the edges.
He must not know what that word meant, she decided. Otherwise he wouldn’t be using it with her.
She ached—from the lengthy walk, from her time kneeling on the floor, the glare of the suns against the water. And perhaps most especially from the bleeding that had caused her to be sold at all. But there was nothing that could be done for such things, and she comforted herself that at least the horrid dryness in her throat would be mended. Perhaps. If her master remained true to his word and wished her to drink.
He led her to the far wall, toward a basin with an unfamiliar metal spout extending over the edge. She looked about for a pitcher, but there was none, so she merely stared, feeling incredibly stupid.
“Here,” he said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a cup. That she recognised, she thought ruefully. A lone object in this world of new. “Do the Narada not have plumbing?”
They might, but she did not know it. He held the cup in his hand, evidently waiting for an answer. “I don’t know,” she said at last, thinking that must be what he expected. She was proven correct for he smiled, nodding.
“Well, if you are ever thirsty, you can get a cup and then just...” he fiddled with the handle of the spout, a quick turn of the wrist and water appeared, clear and wet and...
She forced herself to keep still and not drink from the trickle directly. He had told her to use cups, and she would obey. Except he was holding that one, and the rest were on a very high shelf. She could reach it, but only if she climbed onto the lower cupboard, and she was not certain if he would approve of such a manoeuvre.
He must have caught her dubious glance, for he laughed softly. “Oh. Yes, you are rather...” he shook his head, his skin still turning that greenish colour. She wondered about that, but was not about to ask him. “Have this one,” he told her, gesturing toward the still flowing stream of water. “I will have to rethink some of these placements if you are going to be able to fetch things for yourself. Not that I mind helping you, of course!” he continued on, his words coming so fast that it was almost a prattle. Was he nervous? Impossible. She should pay him more attention, but she was most preoccupied with filling up the cup as high as she was able, raising it to cautious lips and forcing herself to wait. He did not stop her, did not admonish her for any of her actions, so after a moment longer, she took a careful sip. But as soon as she did so, her body’s need overwhelmed her, and sips turned to gulps.
Master Olivar stopped his long stretch of words and watched her, looking a little sorrowful. She couldn’t imagine why. But apparently he believed in speaking his m
ind, for he told her of his thoughts quite freely. It was an odd thing, but she did not find it disagreeable. Not when it meant she learned more of her new master. “I did not know you were so thirsty,” he murmured regretfully. “You can tell me when you need something, yes? I will not be angry.”
She wanted to believe him, but it was hard. She was not used to being required to speak at all besides the rote answers that were expected now and again. Her thirst was quickly abating with her second cup of water, but there were things that ailed her still. She was hungry, yet did not know how to ask about a meal—she most certainly did not want him to prepare something for her. She wished there were other thralls here. They would likely help her, or at least, would prefer to intervene on her behalf rather than force the master to have to procure food for a thrall.
But there were none. She was entirely alone.
Despair niggled at her, and it left her queasy, fatigue settling over her and she swayed, just a little, but evidently enough for Master Olivar to notice. He frowned, gripping her arm and keeping her steady. He didn’t say again how poorly she looked, and she was grateful for that. Instead he led her to a carved wooden table, pulling out a chair and pushing her gently down so she would sit. “When did you last eat?”
She swallowed, the thought of food strangely appealing yet sickening all at once. “Yesterday,” she answered softly.
His mouth tightened into a firm line. “I suppose it could have been worse,” he remarked to himself, turning back to the cupboards. “Assuming your people eat regularly. You are small enough that maybe you do not.” He was chattering again, but she did not find it unpleasant. His voice was mild, not the angry barkings of a displeased master like she was used to, and it enabled her to judge his mood even as he worked. As she’d feared, he seemed to be preparing food, and she sat miserably, trying to decide if she should go and offer her help or remain where she had been placed.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 5