Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  “I intended to go to the market to buy her boots of her own,” he explained, likely to the doctor. “I suppose that will have to wait.”

  The doctor glanced down at her foot, and she realised why they were questioning this. They did not want her pained, and were afraid she couldn’t walk on her own. She swallowed, knowing she shouldn’t speak up, but she found the prospect of being abandoned here intolerable. “I can walk,” she assured Olivar, her eyes beseeching him not to leave her.

  The doctor was... not nearly as bad as the one she had known before. But there was still the knowledge of his function that made it difficult to trust him, and she very much wanted to simply return to Master Olivar’s home.

  To her nest of blankets and cushions he had made just for her.

  To the sewing she’d yet to finish.

  And perhaps, if she was particularly observant, she could find some way to do something for Olivar as well.

  “You will get the bandages dirty,” Master Olivar reminded her. “And I am afraid I do not trust that it is not sore.”

  She bit her lip. It was, but only when she allowed any weight upon it.

  She hung her head, waiting to be told that she would be in the doctor’s charge now, that Master Olivar might possibly collect her when she’d healed, but only just maybe.

  “Right, then,” Olivar muttered, taking a step nearer to her.

  She did not expect him to suddenly pick her up, her legs coming out from under her as his bulky arm was suddenly pressing behind her knees. But his other arm was there to catch her, and he gave a sheepish smile as she yelped and fell against him.

  She stared at him with wide eyes. Her arms itched to clutch at him, to make sure that she wouldn’t be dropped somewhere, but she forced herself not to. He was already touching her too much—no master would have done this before, of that she was certain—and it would be something else entirely for her to be touching him as well.

  “You have my thanks, Mandar,” Olivar told the doctor with a nod of his head. “You may decide on the payment you require and I will see that you have it in full.”

  The doctor glanced at her briefly before shaking his head. “Do not fret over that, Olivar,” he said quietly. “You were... very brave for taking her away from the Narada. Making sure she suffers no more hurts from them is the least I could do.”

  Something in her relaxed. Master Olivar would not have to lose more of something because of her, not if the doctor did not require payment. But that quickly passed as she realised that the doctor was also now going without, just as Olivar had done when he’d accepted her in the first place.

  “Many thanks to you,” she murmured, feeling the need to at least acknowledge his sacrifice.

  He looked at her in some surprise, but then he smiled at her warmly. “You are most welcome here, child,” he assured her. “Whenever you have need.”

  Ness gave a timid sort of smile in return, choosing to believe he meant to be gracious rather than threatening. She certainly hoped she would not have continued need for doctoring. She glanced up at Olivar, noticed the way he was watching her a little worriedly, and she began to relax.

  She had been frightened here, worried for what procedures would be done, but the doctor had been... respectful. Almost kind. And the more time she spent with Master Olivar—Olivar—the more she was coming to believe that perhaps he meant it when he said he wanted her safe, wanted her not to hurt any longer.

  And that he wouldn’t be giving her any hurts himself.

  There was a knock at the door, and suddenly the doctor was dismissing them, admitting a female and a much younger child inside. Both newcomers eyed her strangely, but Olivar did not have them linger for enquiries. He simply brushed past, still eyeing her, and she felt her cheeks heat at his appraisal.

  “Home,” he decided with a nod of his head. “There will be other markets.”

  Ness looked at him worriedly, afraid that she had disappointed him somehow. Clearly he had seen something in her that made him decide she was not adequately prepared for whatever this market might be.

  She searched his expression in turn, looking for upset, for anger, for any sign that his patience was growing thin.

  Except there was nothing.

  He caught her looking, but even then he only smiled, holding her so carefully, as if he was the one afraid. Of touching her bruises, perhaps?

  She couldn’t be sure.

  But a part of her thought that perhaps that might be so, and a little part of her warmed at his concern.

  And though it was wrong, she found herself leaning more fully against him as he carried her back to his home.

  8. Gift

  “Those look very fine,” Olivar complimented, eyeing her up and down with genuine approval.

  She flushed, unused to praise from a master, but found it tremendously appealing. She had just finished altering his garments, and though perhaps they were not quite as well fitted as Nell would have produced, there was no risk of them falling off. Her arms were fully exposed, making her feel light and free, yet Master Olivar still seemed to approve of how much of her was covered.

  And his approval mattered to her a great deal—perhaps even more than any of her previous keepers. That should trouble her, that she could have preferences in a master, but she supposed if she kept quiet about it, if no one else knew, perhaps it was not so very bad.

  There had been little he allowed her to do since she’d gone to see the doctor. Master Olivar had been the one to boil the water before bringing her a cup and spoon so she could put in the herbs herself. She’d been shocked by that, waiting for him to take the pouch she’d offered so he could administer the proper amount to her, but he shook his head with a sad sort of smile. “That is yours,” he reminded her. “I think you can manage it for yourself.”

  She’d been careful to obey the doctor, a spoonful and nothing more, and though she was nervous based on his dubious caution of ill effects, she felt perfectly herself. Sleepier than usual, perhaps, but Olivar did not seem to mind when she dosed, insisting she rest as much as was needed.

  But he apparently did not view sewing as something overly taxing, so he did allow her to sit at the table with her stitchwork while he was tending to other things in the room. Cooking mostly, the amount of food he prepared and the frequency of his meals rather startling. He always offered her some, a plate or bowl heaped with an offer for her to join him, but though she tried to always oblige, her stomach eventually made it quite known that if she continued to try to force such large quantities of food, it would host an open rebellion.

  She had told him that nervously, pouring out gratitude for his generosity, but Oliver merely shook his head, taking her plate and scooping the contents into his own. “We will just have to find the proper amount for you,” he told her easily. “No need to fret.”

  She still could not quite believe his manner. He was so free with her, speaking effortlessly and often. Almost as if she was a mistress and not the thrall she knew herself to be. And no matter how she tried to explain things to him, he shook his head and redirected the conversation, dismissing her concerns that he still did not seem to understand her place.

  “It is quite the other way around,” he said to her once, when he caught the trail end of her mumbled frustration. She had stared at him with eyes wide, worried he would punish her for her half-hearted complaint, but he’d only smiled, patting her shoulder.

  Everything about him was strange and confusing.

  And, if she was honest, rather wonderful.

  It worried her, how easy it would be to trust him. To put aside her years of training and simply embrace this preposterous new role he seemed to want her to fill. She was not a mistress, had no business pretending otherwise, and yet...

  With him it was far too tempting to indulge in the fantasy he concocted. Quiet evenings spent sewing, warm food in her belly. Bruises fading instead of forming.

  And now, new clothes to wear that had been taken from he
r master’s own wardrobe.

  She smoothed her hands down her tunic, pleased that he was pleased.

  “You still will need more, of course,” he continued. “I doubt you would want to wear only my old things.”

  She kept her expression carefully neutral. She truly had no such preference, but still worried over his threat to expend more of his resources on her care.

  He had also been rather odd the last few days. He was as patient with her as ever, but his eyes went frequently to the door leading to the lower level, almost as if he wished to leave her.

  It made her nervous, made her remember that there was much of him she did not know, and it would be foolish to trust him so soon.

  “How is your foot?” he asked, gesturing for her to join him at the table. It no longer hurt to walk, though the bandages had been a welcome cushion against the wooden floor during its healing, but Olivar still fretted over its condition.

  “It does not hurt,” she assured him, though she did not quite know if that was because it truly had healed or simply because she was still drinking the doctor’s brew morning and night as instructed. Her blood was beginning to wane, and she could likely stop by tomorrow, but only after first consulting with her master.

  He pulled a chair out with his foot, positioning it so it was directly across from his, and patted it welcomingly. “Let us see,” he insisted. She hesitated, but only briefly, crossing to him quickly.

  She sat, uncertain of exactly what he intended, but then he was gesturing again and she looked at him dubiously. Surely he didn’t mean to…

  But evidently he did for he sighed a little, reaching down and grasping her ankle, pulling it to rest in his lap as he began to unwind the long roll of bandages.

  Ness swallowed, trying to force moisture into her dry mouth. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He could look all he wanted, yet something in her twisted strangely when he touched her ankle, pulling her foot up so he could get a better look.

  He touched the sole of her foot softly and she tried unsuccessfully to jerk her ankle from his grasp. He stared at her with wide eyes, putting her foot back down in his lap. “Did that hurt?”

  Her cheeks turned crimson and she shook her head. It hadn’t hurt, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant either. It was a difficult sensation to explain, but he seemed worried at her reaction so it was important she try. “It... felt odd. I am sorry. I will be still.”

  At least, she would try to be. Her movement had been involuntary as she knew better than to pull away from a master, but Olivar was releasing her all the same. “It looks much improved,” he assured her. She hadn’t been overly worried about it, but clearly he had been. “Perhaps it is time for the market, after all.”

  She smiled at him because that seemed to be the thing he wanted, but evidently she didn’t do it right because he did not look pleased with it. “You do not wish to go?” He seemed confused by that, his head tilting slightly to the side as he peered at her. “If you wish to remain, I have no objection. Though I wish you had told me so I could have fetched things for you earlier.”

  Her stomach gave an uncomfortable twist at the prospect of being left here alone. The Caern had not appeared again, nor had there been any sign of Master Bendan, but still, to be left in a master’s dwelling, where there was no telling of what might happen that she could be blamed for upon his return...

  She shook her head slowly, not quite believing she was about to try to explain herself, but finding that the words came more easily than she thought possible. “That is not it,” she told him, her voice low. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, though she knew it to be his preference. “I... I do not... you already took a loss by bringing me here. I do not want you to go without anything more because of me.”

  She could feel his stare, and she fought the urge to fidget. She was not terribly successful.

  “Ness,” he told her firmly. “If I spend my money on you, it is because I believe there are things you should not go without.” He gestured about him. “I am not lacking in comfort. The only thing left that I need is for you to...” he stopped, shaking his head. She wondered if he was struggling to find a word, but there was a hint of anguish to his expression that suggested perhaps he just found the subject a difficult one. He sighed deeply. “I need for you to have a good life here. And to accept what little I can give you.”

  She slumped back against her chair, uncertain how to respond.

  She never imagined that a master could feel such responsibility for his thrall, that he would be willing to sacrifice anything for her care. It made her feel important and unworthy all at once.

  “I... I don’t know how to do that,” she murmured at last, peeking at him in order to gauge his reaction. “I don’t know how to be the thrall you want me to be.”

  Olivar smiled at her, a sad thing that looked wrong on his usually good-humoured features. “I do not want you to be a thrall at all,” he told her gently, reaching out and taking her hand in his. “And I certainly do not want to be your master. Just your...” he paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to think of the word. He must have failed, for he grew even more frustrated. “Mate?” his ears turned green just to say that, and she tried not to gape at him. “No, not that. Your... companion?” He shook his head, huffing out an annoyed breath. “That is not it either.”

  Ness swallowed, trying to push past her initial shock to try to decipher what he might be intending. He had asked for her help, after all, and that likely included difficulties with language. She bit her lip, thinking hard, before finally offering her best suggestion.

  “Friend?”

  He brightened visibly. “Yes, friend!” He ducked his head, almost as he was suddenly nervous. She couldn’t imagine why. “Do you think that would be possible for us?”

  She wanted to blurt out an emphatic no. It simply wasn’t possible, not given their differences. But it seemed as if, no matter how absurdly, that answer would hurt him.

  And she did not want him hurt. Not for all the world.

  She smoothed her hands down her new tunic, struggling with what to tell him. “I have never had a friend before,” she said finally, her silence only seeming to add to his nervousness. “I do not think I would make a very good one.”

  It was true. Putting aside how horrifically inappropriate it was to suggest a master be her friend, she also doubted that she could be what Olivar wanted. She did not seem to anticipate his needs very well, didn’t communicate easily enough, so he oftentimes grew frustrated with her.

  “Never? I find that difficult to believe.”

  She glanced up at him in confusion. “Why?” She clamped her mouth shut lest anymore questions escape, but Olivar did not seem to mind.

  The green of his ears leeched down into his cheeks. “Well, you are... very sweet. Eager to please,” that he said with a hint of a grimace. He wanted her to please him less? He was a very confusing man. “I would think anyone would have been glad to be your friend.”

  She stilled, not certain if she should expound upon her time with the other thralls or remain silent on the subject. He had always looked so angry whenever she spoke even a little of her experiences, but evidently he wanted her to be less quick to please him, so perhaps it was allowable.

  “Relationships with other thralls are not encouraged,” she told him. She spoke slowly, ready to stop if he should wish it. But he said nothing and listened intently, so she continued. “I am... not certain they were completely forbidden, but... talking was rarely allowed. I think that part is important for... for a friend.”

  Which was another reason she would be a poor choice for him. Every word was difficult to give him, every thought carefully considered before it was shared.

  “That is sad,” Olivar commented, still looking at her with those mournful eyes.

  She blinked at him. She had not expected him to agree that it might be. Many times she had sobbed into the blanket assigned to her, the loneliness an aching, crushing thing. Household th
ralls were permitted associations. They had proven their service and loyalty. They were trusted.

  But her...

  “Did you not want a friend?” he continued, leaning forward a little in his seat. “Do your people not value such relations?”

  She fidgeted, finally clasping her hands tightly in front of her to keep them still. “We obey,” she answered him, perhaps more vaguely than she intended. “Our masters do not want it for us and so we comply.”

  Perhaps she should confess that if she had borne children as she was meant to, she would eventually have been allowed to form shallow bonds with other, honoured thralls.

  But she didn’t want to speak of her failings, not unless she had to, and that one still hurt to think upon.

  “Do you still think of me as your master, then?” Olivar asked her quietly, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her. “That I would trick you into having a friend when it was not allowed?”

  She looked away from him, trying to think. But she took too long, and he inhaled sharply, and she closed her eyes so she would not have to see the hurt she was certain would be there.

  “I do not know what more I can say,” he murmured regretfully. She did not like his tone, but wasn’t sure what she could do to cheer him. Except...

  He did seem to like it when she talked.

  Even if that seemed too preposterous to be true.

  “I do not think you would try to trick me,” she assured him, finding this entire conversation to be foreign and confusing.

  Yet strangely thrilling as well.

  “You... you have been the kindest...” she halted, her lips already forming the word master, but she forced the word away, trying to replace it with another. She grew frustrated with her failure, and knew she was taking too long yet again. “Well, simply that. There has never been one as kind as you,” she continued, her voice faltering a little. She needed him to know she was sincere, needed him to believe her.

  Anything for him to stop looking at her that way, as if she had severely disappointed him.