Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  He must have caught her expression because his smile faded a little. “You do not like them?” It was not the first time he’d asked her that. With each article they perused, he wanted her opinion, wanted to know her tastes and preferences. No matter how she stuttered over an answer, he never seemed to accept that she had none. Clothing had never been a choice. Blankets either.

  But he kept insisting that he meant to give her one.

  And though that was perhaps the most generous thing of all, that made it no less difficult to actually choose. By the third stall he seemed to finally grasp how overwhelmed she was becoming and took pity on her, telling her only that she was to speak up if there was anything she hated. “Or if there is anything you simply cannot leave without,” he added, his eyes serious. She nodded because he was waiting for acknowledgement, and the rest of their time at the market went by much more easily.

  He appeared a little disappointed at first when she had asked for nothing in particular, but to appease him, she shook her head timidly when one of the ware-keepers suggested a long sleeved concoction of prickly yarn woven loosely together. Olivar brightened after that. Clearly her participation mattered, even in small amounts.

  “How are your boots?” he asked, laying out her new things and smoothing out the fabrics. It was an odd thing for him to do, and she quickly took over the process, since evidently he wanted all her things to be tidy. She would care for them well, for she could not bear for him to think she was ungrateful. “Are your feet sore?”

  Ness shook her head, but glancing quickly at his face, he obviously desired a vocal response. “No,” she tried again. “The soles are scuffed though,” she informed him mournfully. She held up her foot so he could see the bottoms, the once pristine surface showing definite signs of their trek.

  Olivar gave a funny snort, shaking his head in amusement. “That is what is meant to happen, Ness. Better the sole of your boot than your foot.”

  She flushed, nodding in agreement. That would have meant another trip to the doctor, and despite his comparative kindness, she would still prefer to remain far away from there.

  “There is something I should mention,” Olivar continued, this time his eyes avoiding hers. It made her immediately wary, and she put down her new tunic, watching him carefully.

  He huffed, sitting at the edge of the bed. “It is nothing bad, so you do not need to worry,” he reassured her, though his glance in her direction was much briefer than usual. “It is only... I have been neglecting my work downstairs, and if I am to support us as I mean to, I will need to return to it.”

  Her brow furrowed. Why did that trouble him?

  Her continued confusion did not allow her to relax, still worried that she was missing something terrible. She opened her mouth to ask him for clarification, but he continued before she could do so.

  “It is only that I do not know what to do with you while I work,” he finished, his eyes finally coming to meet hers. “You have never wanted to be up here alone, and I do not know how you would take to being around a forge.” He smiled at her, and she liked to think there was a hint of fondness there. “You do not seem to care for heat.”

  She supposed that was true enough, but it still troubled her greatly that Olivar did not feel free to do as he needed out of misplaced respect to her preferences. “I would...” she shook her head, trying to decide what was appropriate to say. He looked at her sadly and she picked her words hurriedly. “I would just like to be where you are,” she said at last. “Even if it is downstairs.”

  She had hoped that he would smile at her, that the mournful look in his eyes would dissipate, but it didn’t. He only huffed out a tired sort of sigh, his shoulders slumping. She did not expect such a change in his demeanour, especially when he had been so amiable at the market. It troubled her deeply, especially when he spoke. “I wish I could believe that.”

  Her eyes widened. “I have always spoken truly to you!” It dismayed her for him to think otherwise.

  He glanced at her. “Have you? Perhaps. But there is much you have left unsaid, and even now I cannot trust that you do not say something simply to appease me rather than because you speak honestly. It makes it... difficult to know how to proceed.”

  Her own shoulders slumped for she did not know how to dispute what he said—nor would it have been appropriate for her to have done so in any case. That is what he believed and so that was true. “I wish to be of help to you,” she said at last, the words coming easily, but they did not feel quite as ingrained as some of her other responses. She did want to help him. And please him. And have him smile at her.

  “Why?” he asked, shaking his head a little. “I fear it is because you still believe that you must, not that you truly wish it.”

  “But I do!” she protested, much more loudly than she should have. She flushed, trying to compose herself, but finding this entire talk terribly distressing. None of her old masters truly cared why she was obeying, merely that she did. Or did they? There were the lessons on the inferiority of her people, of the need to earn honour since they were born with none of their own. Was that all in attempt to influence a thrall’s desire to serve?

  It was all too confusing. She was a simple girl, without any big thoughts. Just the knowledge that she cared what Olivar thought of her and wanted him to want to remain as her keeper.

  Wanted him to stop looking at her that way.

  “I do,” she repeated, much more calmly than before, though a bit of her despondency leaked in against her will. “I... I do not like to see you sad. Or distressed. Or frustrated. And I want to make things easier for you.”

  His eyes narrowed and he shifted his position slightly so he could look at her better. “Because I am your master or because I am your friend?”

  She hesitated a moment too long, knowing her answer but afraid to admit it. But she took too long and he chuffed out an annoyed breath, rising from the bed.

  “Wait!” she called out to him, her arm outstretched, a new tunic still clutched in the other. “Please, just... wait...”

  He turned back, at first all his frustration so readily evident in his every feature. But as she tried to collect herself, to force words past her panic and fear, his eyes began to soften as he regarded her. “I am sorry, Ness,” he said a little formally. It sounded odd coming from him, a direct contrast to his usual easy manner. “I am... less patient than I thought.”

  She bit her lip. She didn’t know what he thought he’d been, but to her he had patience in abundance. And perhaps he needed to hear that, even if it was from a lowly thrall.

  “You are,” she insisted, keeping her head ducked. If she spoke out of turn, perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so wrong if she kept her eyes where they belonged. “I am sorry that I am slow and that you are unhappy with me.”

  He closed the distance between them in a few short steps, touching her chin with his forefinger. There was no need to press anymore, for she knew what he wanted, obliging without complaint. “I am not,” he assured her, though she had trouble believing that was true, regardless of his status. “You will need time and I... I must respect how difficult and confusing this all must be for you. But when I think of how you must view me, of what you must fear that I can or would do to you...” he shook his head as he closed his eyes, his expression growing pained. “That is what I cannot bear.”

  That was his greatest concern? “I think... very highly of you.” Some of her consternation must have eked into her tone for he gave her a strange look. She smoothed her features and tried again. “I have known none like you before and am... coming to trust that you are as you seem.” She gestured to the bed covered in wares. “No one has ever given me so much, or let me have any things at all to call my own. You did that, and were happy to do it. I... I do not see you as I saw my old masters,” she finished, making herself look at him steadily in the eye so he might believe her.

  She still wasn’t wholly convinced it was appropriate to discard master in favour of frie
nd, but he did not seem willing to take on the role of the former, so perhaps it was wisest to approach him as the latter.

  She froze when Olivar leaned down, and for a moment he thought to wrap her in his long arms again. But instead he smoothed his lips across her forehead, a brush of skin against skin, his surprisingly warm. Her every muscle was tensed with confusion, but as quickly as he had done it, he stepped backward. “Many thanks,” he told her, bowing his head. She blushed, always feeling strange when he did that. She could accept no deference from him. “I think highly of you as well.”

  She smiled glumly at that, but turned back to smoothing out her clothes so he wouldn’t see it. There was a grave difference that he seemed to be missing. She was coming to believe that he deserved every bit of her admiration.

  She, most assuredly, deserved none of his.

  “I still think you might need a wardrobe,” he declared, not quite in her direction so she felt no need to answer him.

  For there really was nothing she could say.

  But he was smiling again, and that was all that really mattered.

  “But I am happy to do it,” he told her, not for the first time.

  Olivar had found an old trunk in the sooty room downstairs, and with much scrubbing it was deemed suitable enough for her new things. She had thought that he had bought her too much—and she stood by that assessment even now—but the trunk was large and dwarfed her new belongings, making it seem like she had much left to acquire.

  Which simply could not be true.

  But after their labour—for he would not allow her to clean the trunk on her own, claiming that he was the one to have messed it in the first place—it was time for another meal. And remembering how he wished her to approach him as a friend rather than a master, she had hesitantly asked to be allowed to learn how to prepare food for them.

  He frowned, leaning against the counter as he regarded her. “There is so little I can do for you,” he continued, his eyes darting to what he had called the stove.

  Her face pinched up before she could stop it, and unfortunately he noticed. “What was that for?”

  With any other master she could well have expected a slap for her insolence. But not with him.

  It made her brave, no matter how foolishly. “I am the one that can do nothing to repay you,” she insisted, though she kept her voice low and respectful. “And you...” she shut her mouth, not meaning to go so far, but Olivar was staring at her and did not seem prepared to allow the topic to drop. She sighed, her voice almost going too low to be acceptable. “You will not even let me try.”

  “Because there is no need!” he objected. “All of this. The doctor, your clothes... It is the least I could do.”

  She shook her head, knowing it was wrong to contradict a master, but found herself doing so anyway. What was happening to her? “But it isn’t. All of this is far more than was required of you. Far more than I ever expected anyone would want to give me. And I... I would appreciate having some way I could thank you for it.”

  He stared at her for quite a long time, long enough for her to become quite sure he intended to send her to the table and wait for their meal to be ready, her request for lessons ignored. But to her surprise, instead he gave a thoughtful nod. “All right.” She brightened at that, giving him a wide smile in gratitude, but he held up a thick finger. “As long as you can assure me that you ask because you want to learn, and not because you think I will...” he looked as if he was bracing himself, and she did not like him to look so pained. “That I will punish you if you do not contribute to the chores.”

  A few days ago she might have. It seemed a reasonable enough worry given how quick her other masters were to punish when she was slow. But he had fretted so sweetly over her foot, over any pains she endured from her blood, and even now she could not conjure what a punishment from Olivar might entail.

  Not when her hurts seemed to trouble him so.

  “I just want to help,” she told him again, trying to infuse all the sincerity she could into it. “Nothing more.”

  His mouth formed a thin line for a brief moment before he gave her a smile. Not quite as warm as he usually gave her, but enough for her to feel a little more at ease. “Right then,” he declared, pulling out a pan. “How much experience do you have with cooking?”

  She shifted awkwardly. “I mended,” she reminded him, trying to highlight that she did have a useful quality, just not one that resulted in food.

  He glanced at her in confusion, but must have noticed the colour in her cheeks for he gave a sheepish smile. “Of course,” he murmured. “Then we shall begin with the basics.”

  It was the oddest thing, having Olivar for a teacher.

  The only time his voice raised was when he feared her safety. Her work with the knife was rather sloppy, and though he startled her greatly, she would rather a momentary fear that than risk a finger. But he apologised quickly enough for scaring her with his exclamation, evidence enough that he was a very different sort of teacher than ones she had known.

  More like Nell than like a master.

  It was foreign to think that way—to equate a master’s actions and manner with that of a thrall. But perhaps that was what he kept trying to tell her. He wasn’t like a master. Not when he was so gentle with her, and despite his previous worry, so very patient.

  He did not give her a smack when she didn’t quite manage to follow his instruction on the first try. He didn’t call her stupid and worthless when she had to ask him to repeat the words and locations of some of the ingredients.

  And it made her admire him all the more.

  It was also determined by a rather unfortunate incident that they had very different concepts of heat. His instruction had been simple, for her to move one of the heavy metal pans that had been sitting on the stove. She had seen him do it, his large hand enveloping the handle easily as he moved it to the basin to wash.

  But when she did it, gripping her hand trustingly against the metal, she was forced to release it with a yelp, the pan clattering back on to the stove with a heavy clang as metal met metal.

  She looked down at her palm, a bright red stripe contrasting against her otherwise pale skin.

  Tears flooded her eyes as it throbbed, and she stood there completely uncertain what to do. She’d endured many bruises before. Even cuts. But never burns.

  She decided that she hated these most of all.

  “Ness!”

  Olivar came quickly, taking hold of her wrist and looking at her palm with abject horror. It hadn’t been intentional then, she comforted herself. There was no masking his surprise at what had happened to her, and the mournful way he was assessing the wound showed he was severely displeased.

  She had no words to comfort him though, not when she was trying not to sob.

  “Here,” he urged, tugging her toward the wash basin. He turned the handle, water rushing out in a gush as he put her wounded hand beneath the stream.

  She flinched, the water causing the throbbing to increase at first, and she had to bite her lip hard to keep from whimpering. “Is that better?” he asked, his eyes full of anguish and his own dose of panic, and she could not bring herself to answer him, not at first. Not when it took all of her self-control to keep even a little of her composure.

  But soon it did begin to help, at least a little, and it no longer took Olivar’s strong grip to keep her from withdrawing her hand from the water. “Yes,” she finally managed to choke out.

  “I am so sorry, Ness,” he told her, his voice a pained rumble. “I had no idea that you would be so... so delicate.” He hung his head, releasing her wrist but not moving away from her either. “You know that I did not mean to let that happen, yes? Please say you do.” He was pleading with her, his voice more of an entreaty than she had ever heard from him, and if she’d had any lingering doubts about the mishap they would have melted away at his earnestness.

  “I know that,” she assured him, her voice coming out in a croak,
a sob quickly following. It had frightened her, the sudden pain and the paralysis that came with not knowing what to do for her own burned flesh. She still didn’t know what to do for it. She couldn’t stand here forever, but she hated the thought that the terrible throbbing might return.

  He did not seem very comforted by her words, glancing down at her hand. “It takes a great deal for us to burn,” he told her, holding up his own palm. “So I did not... I did not think.” He closed his eyes briefly, looking much more determined when he opened them again. “I know you do not like to be left,” she blanched, glancing up at him tearfully. He brought his hand to her shoulder, rubbing lightly. “But I need to ask Mandar what should be done for you, and I do not want you to have to walk that far. Not without some relief.”

  She almost plucked her hand out right then to show him that she didn’t mind, not if it meant she got to stay with him, but he suddenly moved off, bringing her a chair and pushing her gently down to sit, her hand still under the running water. He adjusted it slightly so it was more a trickle than a gush. “I will run,” he promised her. “You do not have to worry about anything.”

  But she did. Because Master Bendan was going to come, and their meal was growing cold, and she should have just sat quietly at the table while Olivar cooked.

  She really was useless.

  She started to cry again, Olivar looking torn as he glanced between her and the doorway. But then he was brushing his lips against the top of her head, his touch a comfort even though it shouldn’t be. “Just a little while, Ness,” he promised, turning and running down the steps to the village beyond.

  And then he was gone.

  And suddenly her tears came not only from her hand but from the loneliness that followed, the fear of what might come while he wasn’t there to fight for her.

  She shouldn’t cry. She knew that. To feel pain was to be a thrall, and it was an honourable thing to bear it without complaint. But no matter how she tried to get herself to stop, to remind herself that she had fared much worse, she couldn’t quite keep the tears from coming.