Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  His unending kindness made her tears come more strongly, and before she realised what was happening, Olivar had situated himself on her cushion and pulled her into his arms. She was a tangle of blankets and sleep-clothes, her hair was snarled and unkempt as it escaped the braid she had banished it to before going to bed the night before.

  But none of that mattered. Not when she felt his arms enclose about her and she waited for the panic to begin, for her to equate the enclosed feeling with what had happened to her before.

  Except... it didn’t feel the same.

  She’d felt trapped and scared, the pain like nothing she’d experienced before, making her ache in ways that had nothing to do with the physical hurts she had endured.

  But this...

  She felt safe.

  Even if she wasn’t, even if she was a stupid, gullible thrall to trust him so quickly. But she found there was nothing else she could do when he held her so sweetly, when he let her head nestle against his chest and told her she could cry if she needed to...

  He was special, this Olivar.

  He was kindness and safety and caring and...

  All the things that had been missing with those she had known before, whether from master or thrall.

  “What am I?” she mumbled, more to herself than to him. “If you’re not my master, if... if no one here is my master, then what can I be?”

  He shifted, and she liked to think that he held her a little nearer to him, nestling her closer to his side. How could this feel so very different than any touch she’d ever known?

  “You will just be Ness,” he answered her, a smile in his voice. “Sweet, lovely Ness. And I will be your friend Olivar. And together we will have a good life here.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wet and face swollen, and tried to judge his sincerity. And, as ever with him, nothing about him suggested he hid anything from her. He was openness and honesty, while she felt a bundle of hidden secrets, of dark and twisted shame, a tainted being that had no business calling him friend.

  “I’m not worth it,” she told him earnestly. “I’m not... worthy. Of any of that.”

  His smile was dim, but his touch was gentle as he tucked some of her wayward hair behind her ear. “That I cannot believe,” he disagreed with a shake of his head.

  Of course he didn’t. Because from the very beginning, he’d apparently seen something in her that was false, thought there was something worth trying to save.

  She looked down, a heavy weight settling on her. She didn’t know how to explain, not without laying out all of her transgressions while with the Narada. And he didn’t seem to like hearing about what happened there.

  “Did... did they have to work very hard to make you think that?” he asked, his thumb smoothing over her cheek.

  She suppressed a snort, a laugh mixing in with her sob. “They did not have to. I am slow and... and fail often. It was easy to see that I am worth little.”

  Olivar frowned, ducking his head and urging her to look at him. “What did you fail in? You have a wonderful skill with a needle, so it could not be that.”

  It was a testament to how tired she felt, to the bone-wearing exhaustion that had seeped into her that she did not even feel nervous to tell him. It was simply her truth. And something small whispered to her that Olivar would not mind, that he had been glad to hear that she wasn’t carrying a child.

  That he would not scorn her for this.

  “I could not get pregnant,” she told him, her eyes coming to meet his as she tried to convey the very depth of her failing. “That was my purpose. That is... is why I was given away. How could I ever earn my place in a household if I could not provide children for the masters?” His eyes widened, and the words came freely. Perhaps too freely. But a burden was lifting, and she simply wanted him to hear, to know, that if his kindness was going to disappear, then it should do so quickly, before it became any more devastating should she ever lose it. “They gave me plenty of opportunities,” she continued, feeling a strange urge to defend the Narada, a queasy feeling settling in her stomach as the words came. “They tried different men to see if there was an issue of compatibility. But each time my blood came, and I... I failed to produce. What is a thrall that cannot fulfil their purpose?”

  It was a rhetorical question, as she did not expect an answer from him. He wouldn’t know, his world a very different one from what she’d known.

  He looked pale, a bizarre accomplishment given his usual golden hue. “What are they?” he asked, his voice strained.

  Her head tilted, wondering if she should answer, but the moment he asked, her tongue was ready to supply the correct response. “A dead thrall.”

  He closed his eyes, almost as if he could not see her, then her words would not exist. And she sat, waiting, wondering if when he opened them again he would be a different sort of man.

  She knew so little of the Onidae, of how they viewed mating and couplings.

  There was much she still needed to learn.

  He opened them again, a burning in his eyes that was unfamiliar. It made her pause, made her nervous, and she had to suppress her sudden desire to scoot away from him. “What did you dream?” he asked suddenly, his voice tight and carefully controlled.

  She had not thought he would ask her that, certain there would be other, more pressing questions. She did not want to speak of that—did not want to recount the pain and humiliation she had endured during and after.

  The Narada had learned of her reticence.

  She had been informed most firmly that it would not be tolerated a second time.

  She had been so sore afterward, and when her keeper had hit her for her continued tears, her legs had given way, the hard earth making her cry out as she landed against it—her already tender places screaming out against the impact.

  She hadn’t seen that first man again. She didn’t know if that was usual. Perhaps he was punished too for failing to implant a baby. There was much she didn’t know.

  “It was my first time,” she told him slowly, hoping he would hear just that and change his mind about wanting her to continue.

  Olivar’s hand clenched into a fist, a large, bulky thing that would be powerful if used. She swallowed, eyeing it warily, though still having difficulty conjuring an image of him using it against her. “What else would you like to know?” She did not know what details to give him, what he was truly asking, and it seemed better to clarify than to provide too much of any one thing.

  “Why were you crying?”

  Her brow furrowed. That was his query? “Because it hurt.” That much should have been obvious, but she tried to keep the incredulity from her tone. Perhaps Olivar wasn’t... wasn’t her master, but that did not give her leave to be rude.

  His jaw clenched and flexed, and she eyed him carefully. “Does... does it not hurt for your people?”

  She tried to picture that, tried to imagine how the act could be performed in any way that did not lead to discomfort, to that burning stretch that was foreign and awful, but she couldn’t imagine it.

  Even if it did not hurt, she still did not think it could feel good. But perhaps it wasn’t meant to. Perhaps it was always just something to be endured for the sake of producing a child.

  “Only when it is not wanted,” Olivar answered her, sounding incredibly pained.

  Her eyes widened, and she struggled with how to respond. To admit that she hadn’t wanted it would be to confess what her masters had begun to assume—she was exerting her will over the process and was deliberately denying conception. She did not know how to defend herself, not when she didn’t know what Olivar wanted of her, but her ingrained responses began to take hold, and words coming before she could think better of them. “I did!” she hastened to respond. “I wanted to do as the masters asked. I wanted to... to give them my child. I wanted it to work...”

  Olivar stared down at her, his face oddly blank. And then he deliberately had to work to unclench his fist, before he brought
his hand up and smoothed it down through her hair. “You are a dreadful liar, Ness,” he told her, his voice more sad than chiding. That didn’t stop her from looking at him somewhat fearfully. A master had never said that about her before, and, if it had come from any other, it would have been followed by a swift and violent punishment.

  But he merely tugged at the end of her messy braid, a rueful smile at his lips. “You are not going to deny it?”

  She looked away from him. “I...” she swallowed, trying to push past the lump in her throat and answer him properly. “I tried to want it,” she said at last. “I tried to... to be good, and do what was expected of me.”

  Olivar sighed, a deep, sorrowful thing that made her ache just to hear it. “Even that is difficult to accept, Ness.” She blinked at him, falling silent as she bit her cheek and reminded herself not to speak out of turn. But then his thumb was there again, tapping so as to bid her to stop. “They should not have asked that of you,” he said firmly. “Should not have... have made you.” He stumbled over the words, but this time she thought it was from the subject rather than a difficulty with the language. This troubled him? Truly?

  “It is our purpose,” she reminded him carefully, not certain what was safe to share and what she should be silent about.

  And still she did not seem to know why she felt it necessary to defend her masters. Perhaps it was because to acknowledge that it was better here, that she preferred it in every way—the hurts and pain and the implantations making her cry and making her despair...

  All of that suggested that maybe, just maybe, what the masters had been requiring was wrong.

  And that concept made her head hurt, made her heart race, and it was simply too much to contemplate.

  “Maybe that is what they told you,” Olivar allowed, his voice taking on that hard edge to it again. “But that does not make it true.” She opened her mouth but quickly closed it again, realising she was about to argue with him. How could she change so quickly? She knew better than to indulge in any of this. Sitting with him in this way, talking with him...

  But she was coming to realise that it was the Onidae way that mattered, and she had not been proactive in learning anything about it. “Then what is it?” she asked him, hoping he would tell her and it would not be something too distressing. “What is my purpose here?”

  Olivar frowned, the anger in his eyes dimming somewhat as he considered her question. “I am not... certain that is something I can tell you,” he admitted, each word coming slowly. “That might be something you have to decide for yourself.”

  She huffed a little to herself, far too quiet for him to hear. But perhaps he felt the rise and fall of her chest as she was pressed so tightly against him, and he glanced down at her. “Is that not a sufficient answer?”

  Her cheeks flushed, but she could not bring herself to be too nervous about him, even now. There had been so much time for him to hurt her, so many opportunities when she had done wrong. And yet still he comforted rather than punished.

  “A purpose is not chosen,” she explained, trying to keep her tone level rather than condescending. The fact that she had to try only confirmed how strange she felt tonight. “You are born to it.”

  Olivar looked at her curiously. “And is your first memory of awakening to that purpose? You had a burning desire to give birth to more slaves for your masters? Or is that what they told you it was?”

  She looked away, not certain she understood the difference. “A master is always right,” she reminded herself, her voice low.

  She startled when Olivar actually growled. “Your masters were manipulative glorfendarks that knew precisely how to twist up all your thoughts until you were too confused and lost to ever question them. I always knew the Narada were bad folk, but now...” he shook his head, some of his earlier agitation returning. “Ness, your masters were just men. Bad men, who took your people captive and created that world you lived in. I know... I know how hard it must be to ask you to believe that, but I promise you that it is true.”

  Olivar wasn’t a master. He insisted that. So that meant he could be wrong. Her head hurt, her hand throbbed, and she felt suddenly so terribly weary. She wanted to sleep but was almost afraid to, troubled that perhaps her memories might return. She did not want them. It had been difficult enough living through them the first time.

  The only thing that she knew for certain was if that was Olivar’s opinion of the Narada, it was no wonder he did not like being associated with any of their customs. She would remember that as she tried to learn these new ones, but she hoped he could continue to be patient with her.

  “I think I need to learn more of your people,” she told him.

  For a moment he seemed almost disappointed, and she hoped that he did not think she was choosing to entirely ignore what he’d said. It was simply too big a concept to decide on now, but she would try. But then he brightened, nodding his head. “Yes, perhaps that will help. You can see how other people live.” He eyed his bed briefly before glancing down at her. “Is there anything you’d like to know before we try to sleep again?”

  Guilt niggled at her that we should have to do so. He was resting just fine before she intervened. “What is a brother by half?”

  Olivar’s brow furrowed. “Where did you hear that?”

  She shifted, tugging at her blanket. “Something Master…” she glanced at him nervously, and to her dismay he had not missed her mistake. He always looked so sorrowful when she did that, when he caught a remnant of her old life still living bright within her, and she was so tired of making him sad. “Something Bendan said,” she finished, hoping to smooth over her error.

  She wondered if he would lecture, would feel the need to state even more definitively that Bendan was not a master, nor was anyone else, but he didn’t. He merely closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “We share a mother, but not a father,” he answered at last.

  “Oh,” Ness murmured in understanding. “She was given to two men.”

  Olivar shook his head, sighing a little. “No, Ness. She wasn’t given. She was wedded to Bendan’s father until he died, then she married mine. She chose them.” He was touching her again, smoothing his thumb against the line of his arm. “You have so little idea of how much it pains me that you do not know what that means.”

  She certainly wanted to. She didn’t like him knowing how ignorant she was of his ways, of the things that were so common to his people. But she supposed that to learn would mean exposing all of her confusion, despite her embarrassment.

  “She... chose them,” Ness acknowledged, trying to imagine what that looked like. Perhaps there were lines of men, all available for breeding, and the woman picked the one that looked the most kind, the least likely to hurt on purpose?

  She wasn’t even entirely certain she understood what being wedded meant. A master had his mistress, and from them came little masters and mistresses. Not that she ever saw those, of course. She wouldn’t, not until she’d proven herself. She did not know if a master had to do anything in particular to select his mistress, or perhaps such matters were arranged? Perhaps that was part of the Commander’s responsibility.

  Would that be true of the Caern too?

  “Yes,” Olivar confirmed, his tone betraying that he found that a very important distinction. “No one is forced here. If... if anyone does—and I will not lie and say that it has never happened. But when it does, that man is punished. And rightfully so, for he would have done a very great wrong.”

  This she could understand well. If a male thrall tried to breed without sanction... he certainly paid for the action.

  “Did...” she had to swallow her urge to call him master, “Bendan’s father displease the Caern?”

  Olivar glanced down at her in confusion. “I am not certain I understand your question.”

  She looked at her blankets, having to remind herself that Olivar did not mind when she occasionally spoke wrongly and needed to clarify her meanin
g. “He... Bendan... he said that the Caern was the closest thing to a master here. Did... did his father do something to warrant execution?”

  Olivar’s mouth dropped open and she realised she must have said something particularly shocking. “Ness, that is not how it works at all!”

  Her cheeks reddened, and not for the first time she wished she had simply taken her cushions out into the main room and tried to sleep once more. Words were too hard, their ideas too conflicting, and she was so very tired...

  “You look exhausted,” Olivar noted. “And I would let you sleep but... but I think this is important for you to hear. The Caern is our leader, yes, but he is not permitted to simply... order a person a killed. There are others for that. A...” he frowned. “I do not know the word...”

  She smiled at him, because he was clearly growing frustrated, but she did not know how to offer help. The Commander was the law. It was his will that was carried out without question. It had seemed only reasonable to think that the Caern was similarly respected.

  Olivar sighed, and he leaned down and brushed his lips against the top of her head again. She wondered what he was thinking when he did that—wondered what he thought when he touched her at all. She liked the way it felt, liked when he held her like this. She felt small and safe, tucked away beneath his big arm, hidden away from the rest of the world and all who might want to hurt her.

  “I do not like you thinking that your life is in danger here,” he continued. “It is not. Not even from the Caern.”

  She wasn’t entirely certain that she fully believed that, not when his visit had been so terribly confusing. He did not approve of her presence here, and a part of her was still convinced he would appear one day, demanding she be returned to the Narada.

  So even if he was not the one who commanded her actual death, the order would result in precisely the same outcome.

  But she did not tell Olivar that. This was evidently very important to him. So she found herself giving a sombre nod, to his apparent relief.