Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  Master Bendan mimicked his posture, even going so far as to push the chair back on its legs, balancing it there. “Fine,” he conceded. “But only a day, mind. Then you are getting reported.”

  Olivar snorted, but there was a laugh hidden there.

  Ness did not know who to look at, their behaviour terribly odd. So she huddled, sipping at the last of her medicine, and hoping she would begin to understand their strangeness, and soon.

  They spoke of menial things. Of work she didn’t understand, of a lady and the work that needed doing for her. She sat quietly, trying to go unnoticed, because they seemed only to argue when the subject turned to her.

  She was growing hungry, and she was reminded yet again how she had spoiled their meal with her thoughtlessness, and Olivar must have been growing hungry as well, for he stood, turning to his brother. “You will stay to share with us?” he asked, not quite a full invitation, at least not to her since no food was directly mentioned, but Master Bendan seemed to understand it well enough.

  He glanced in her direction and she bowed her head, not wanting him to think she held any opinion on the subject. “If you do not mind the company,” he answered, and she could feel his eyes still on her. Did he honestly think she would vocally give any objection to his presence? Clearly his opinion of her was much lower than she’d presumed if he thought her such an outspoken thrall.

  Olivar touched her shoulder, and she did look at him, but only because he liked it. “I have not forgotten that you want to help,” he told her gently. “But given... your most recent injury, perhaps we should wait a few days before we try again. Does that sound fair to you?”

  Even if it didn’t, she doubted she would say so. “Yes,” she agreed, because he still stood there, waiting. “And... I’m sorry about my hand. I’m sorry you had to go back to the doctor.”

  He frowned, his touch moving to her hair, stroking gently. “None of that,” he chided. “As you said, it was an accident. We are still learning, you and I. I just hope that not every lesson has to end in something painful for you.”

  She smiled, hoping quite the same, a warm feeling passing over her skin that a master might agree with her, might wish to spare her discomfort.

  Olivar removed his hand and turned to begin cooking anew, and she thought ruefully that the entire endeavour would take far less time now that he didn’t have to explain every detail to her.

  “You are not what I expected,” Master Bendan mused when his brother grew preoccupied with his work.

  “I am sorry,” she answered quickly, since an apology seemed most appropriate.

  He smiled, shaking his head. “That is not... I did not mean to imply that it was a bad thing. Seeing you both together is simply... unexpected.”

  Ness released a tired sigh, almost glad that this was coming out now. “He will not let me be a proper thrall to him,” she confirmed. “He... he says he does not want to be my master.”

  Master Bendan’s eyes widened, his eyes flickering to his brother before resettling on her. “And that upsets you?”

  She bit her lip, not certain how to respond, but knowing that she had to. “He... he deserves the best,” she finally settled on, hoping that his brother of all people might understand that. “I am not the best.”

  It felt good to saw it aloud, to say it to a person that thus far seemed to agree with her. But he was frowning at her, and suddenly she worried she had spoken too hastily, that she had misinterpreted his tone.

  So she bowed her head again and determined to stay silent, her good hand still clutching her empty cup.

  A hand settled on hers, not as warm as she was used to, but still gentle. “You should listen to him,” Master Bendan urged her. “He is telling you what he needs from you, too.”

  Her brow furrowed. Olivar needed to not be her master?

  He must have noticed her confusion for he was quick to continue. “Surely he has explained all this to you.”

  Ness’s cheeks flamed, and she bowed her head even further. “I am slow to learn,” she murmured softly, knowing it to be true. Her time here with Olivar had only confirmed that fact.

  Master Bendan patted her hand. “I do not know about that,” he hedged. “But I do know that my brother is very fond of you. It would hurt him if he knew that you thought of him like he was one of the Narada.”

  Her head shot up. “But I have told him that he is much better than them!” She peeked in Olivar’s direction, and though he glanced back and gave a half-smile, he did not otherwise react to her outburst. She flushed, forcing herself to calm. “I told him that,” she repeated, her tone much more appropriate.

  “Good,” Master Bendan praised. “And keep telling him that. Something tells me he will need to hear it often.”

  She nodded, a little hesitantly, but willing to accept that for the order it was intended to be. If Olivar needed that from her, she would gladly oblige. There was so little she could give him, after all.

  “Did you have just one master back with them?” Master Bendan asked. “Was your situation similar to now?”

  She shook her head emphatically. A part of her screamed not to say anything against the masters, of her time with them—that every bruise had been well deserved by her own failings. But if it was important for Olivar to know that he was different, perhaps it was important to express gratitude for the improvement of her circumstances. Especially if she was to earn Master Bendan’s approval.

  “I had not been... assigned,” she said carefully, trying not to speak of too many of the details. Olivar certainly didn’t like hearing of them, and she wasn’t certain if his brother felt similarly. “All Narada are masters, and are to be obeyed.”

  Master Bendan’s eyes narrowed. “All? That must have been rather confusing.”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. None of it had been as confusing as her time here, but she certainly was not going to say that. “It could be,” she answered, feeling that a safer response.

  “Ness,” Master Bendan began, looking rather uncomfortable himself. “Has anyone asked you... that is to say...” he rubbed the back of his neck, and the gesture was so very Olivar that she could not help but smile a little to herself. “Is that how you see us? That each of us are a master too?”

  Any hint of a smile left her, dread filling her belly. There was no safe answer, no way to hedge, for she hadn’t the least idea what response he wanted. She sat in silence, debating, her hands worrying at her cup even as she tried to remain perfectly composed.

  But then he was touching her hands again, stilling them, shaking his head softly. “You do not have to answer that,” he said at last, and some of the tenseness in her body began to ease. “I suppose questions are hard for you,” he said, almost to himself. “So let me just say this instead. I am not a master. Nor is any of the Onidae. And least of all is my brother. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t, not really. There were too many conflicting ideas in her head, too many lessons upon lessons that were no longer congruent with what Olivar and now Master Bendan were trying to teach her.

  But she had promised to learn, to try, and she supposed that meant accepting their word even now.

  He did not want to be a master either. So not... not Master Bendan. Just... Bendan?

  As if she was worthy of using the same title that his brother used for him.

  “Then... then what are you?” she asked, needing to know, needing to hear what word they preferred for her to use, since she now knew that master was offensive to more than just her keeper. “Olivar, he... he would not give me a word.”

  A half truth, for he had given her one.

  Friend.

  But that felt too intimate to give in relation to all of the Onidae. She had met far too few, and was not convinced that many would like her so very much in any case. Someone surely would notice that she did not belong, that she was overstepping just by mingling with them as she had been.

  By keeping a mistress from such a kind master lik
e Olivar.

  Bendan frowned at her, his brow furrowing as he considered her question. “I... I do not know if I am the one to ask,” he said at last, each word carefully chosen. “But I suppose if I had to pick one...” he nodded his head, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Equals. I would call us equals.”

  Her eyes widened, certain she’d misunderstood. “Equals?” she repeated, hoping he would elaborate.

  He nodded again, this time a little more sure of himself. “Yes. Which is why you have nothing to fear from me, or from anyone else here. You do not have to take any orders or perform any task that you do not want to.” He paused. “I suppose... I suppose that is not entirely true. If the Caern says something, all of us would have to listen, but otherwise...”

  She stared at him, her mind whirling with thoughts as she tried to decide if she believed him or not. She did not think he was outright lying exactly, but...

  Equals?

  She felt Olivar looking at her and she wondered how much he could hear over the spitting of the pan on the stove, but when she turned to look, he was smiling.

  And she found herself smiling back, feeling even more conflicted.

  Because she wasn’t quite certain she was ready to contemplate all the implications of what Bendan was suggesting.

  And what that might mean for her and her keeper.

  Because if he truly was not a master, if they were... were equal in status...

  He certainly could not be a thrall. Every part of her recoiled just to think of it.

  Not a master, not a thrall...

  Then what was he?

  And, perhaps more importantly...

  What would that make her?

  11. Dream

  It was to be her first implantation.

  The tunnels were cool, just as they always were. She wasn’t wearing her normal layers, having been ordered to strip to just her shift back in the isolation room. The other thralls waiting for their times had looked away, and she’d been grateful.

  It was one thing to change for the day as usual, others scrambling into their fresh clothing along with her.

  It was quite another when it was her alone, all of them acutely aware of what would shortly occur.

  Except they all had a far better idea than her.

  She hadn’t done this before. She’d waited for it, been frightened near to sickness that it wouldn’t happen.

  But now that it was...

  Every step was heavy, panic clawing at her throat as she followed her master down the long hall.

  Would the man already be inside?

  She didn’t know what would be worse—having him there or having to sit and wait for him to come to her.

  She wanted to cry, wanted to beg, but she knew better than that.

  “You will not fight him, thrall,” the master ordered as they approached the door. “You can expect pain, but you will be pliant. You will try for a child. Do you understand?”

  She nodded her head. Mistresses began their pregnancies by will. Thralls were expected to do the same.

  She knew she should want to grow a child for her masters. It was her purpose, after all. But she could not even seem to dwell on that part of it, not when she was so frightened and uncertain of the begetting.

  Why would it hurt?

  The master opened the door, pushing her inside and shutting it quickly.

  There was a man inside, sitting on a low cot. He stood at her approach, beckoning her forward with a tired sigh. He was older than her, but that was not difficult to be. She could not seem to get her limbs to cooperate, and she stood there stiffly, watching him through tearful eyes as he finally stepped forward, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward.

  She lurched behind him, her feet dragging, her sobs nearly choking her as she tried to suppress them.

  “You’re making this worse,” he told her, his voice gruff, but his voice low. “There’ve been plenty far younger than you, so I don’t know why you have to fuss.”

  He wasn’t supposed to talk. Neither of them were. The masters had been adamant that no bonds were to be made during the implantation—this was a task to be completed, the same as any other.

  And while she knew he was right, that there were younger girls who had endured, had birthed the children required of them and she should simply lay back and comply, there was also a part of her that was crumbling, that wanted to laugh at the preposterous idea that there was any risk of being endeared to the man next to her.

  It simply wasn’t possible.

  Not when every part of her was tensed with fear, every muscle screamed at her to run.

  But there wasn’t even a purpose in sharing her fears with him, for she recognised that, should he wish to, he could report her conduct—her complaints and her hesitation—to the masters when he’d finished.

  And she was in trouble enough by taking so long for her body to reach maturity.

  But no matter how she tried to calm herself, as soon as he brought her to the bed, pushed on her shoulders and told her to lie back, her body was tight and tense, unwilling to yield to her desperate urges to relax, to obey, to be good...

  She flinched when she felt a hand at her cheek, turning her to look at the other thrall. His eyes were sad, but the emotion was quickly extinguished by resolve. “This has to happen,” he reminded her. “You have a purpose, as do I.”

  She nodded, a miserable resignation overtaking her.

  He was bigger, he was stronger, and he’d been charged with implantation.

  This would happen, regardless of any action on her part. All that remained was what the masters would hear of her dedication to her task.

  She was supposed to want this? Want a child to come from a coupling in this room?

  She shivered when his hand touched her shoulder. It was firm, not exactly gentle, but it didn’t hurt. Not yet. But still, it was foreign, the only touches she’d known from those of the masters when exacting punishment or guiding her through a too-dark hall.

  His fingers skimmed the neckline of her shift, and he was eyeing her torso. It made her want to fidget, made her wish she had been allowed to wear all of her many layers of clothing instead of this flimsy garment, but she wasn’t and she had been told that sometimes the chosen male would have to look so he could... could perform...

  But then he sighed again, and was pushing her backwards, and her shift remained in place, at least for a little.

  She closed her eyes when he pushed it upwards, tried not to think of how his calluses felt against her hips, against her thighs as he was pushing them open.

  Never ever had she felt so exposed.

  Not even when the doctor had done this.

  Not even when it had happened when a master was watching.

  Because somehow the humanness of the hand made it worse. It wasn’t cold and clinical, a master tending to his work as was his due, but a thrall. And suddenly it wasn’t just looking, touching, and when he began to fiddle with his own clothing, she had to close her eyes.

  She willed herself away, far, far away, where there would be no breeding. Where touches might be nice things, comforting things, not frightening and hurting and...

  It burned. The rasp of skin against unreadied flesh, the prodding of something too hard against unyielding muscle. A pinch, a tear, a too-quick stretch…

  She pressed her eyes more tightly together, her mouth open as she panted, trying desperately to make no sound at all.

  He pushed harder, and she did sob then, the burn becoming outright pain, and it hurt, her body struggling to adapt, struggling to open, to give way...

  And she cried.

  And he pushed her face to the side so he wouldn’t have to see it, and plunged, and it hurt and...

  “Ness!”

  Not the voice she remembered in the dark. Not a tired, weary thing born from too many implantations, too many girls weeping in a low cot that held too much memory of blood and sticky seed.

  A touch on her shoulder th
at was soft and light, even from such a large hand.

  “Ness?” he said again, his voice as soft as his touches. “Please wake up,” he murmured, urging her eyes to open. “You are crying...”

  Not shoving her down into the cot so he could...

  They opened at his entreaty, her brow furrowed in confusion. The room was dark, just as in her memory, but there was furniture, and wood instead of smoothly packed earth, and...

  And Olivar.

  She raised a hand and found that he had spoken truly. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and there was a remembered throb of pain in her nethers, and her heart pounded in her chest.

  She bit her lip, trying to contain her tears, tugging at her blankets—for she had blankets here. Ones that had been hers and no others—and felt the mortification seep over her.

  She’d woken her keeper.

  She had... she had dreamed of her first implantation.

  That had not happened for quite some time. Newer, fresher horrors having taken its place and pushing it further into the recesses of her mind. She did not know why it had to awaken at this moment.

  Bendan had been nothing but polite to her during their meal, though he was more reticent to smile than his brother. He had left amiably enough, more playful taunts between the two men before he’d departed, and after she had watched Olivar tidy the kitchen, they had both gone to their respective beds.

  So why did she have to remember now?

  Olivar was kneeling by the side of her makeshift bed, his face betraying every bit of his concern. “Are you all right?” he asked, his hand going to her cheek and tracing over what must have been reddened skin where salty tears met delicate tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” she choked out, trying to find her composure but failing miserably. “I... I’ll go sleep out there,” she made a gesture toward the main room, pushing against her elbows to help her sit up. She couldn’t stay here, not if she was going to interfere with his sleep.

  But Olivar huffed out a tired breath and shook his head. “I am not going to send you out so you can go cry alone, Ness,” he informed her. She thought there was a tinge of hurt in his voice, but surely that was imagined.