9. OLIRA
9
OLIRA
The sun was setting down in the sky, casting long shadows over the farmhouse, when Olira finally arrived home. Her body ached with exhaustion, her muscles screaming from the weight of the small backpack she carried. She had left most of her supplies behind, taking only the essentials, and yet even this amount was enough to leave her shoulders sore.
The man had been in and out of consciousness, his feverish mutterings a constant, unsettling background noise. At first she had tried to soothe the man — he was begging, saying ‘please, no’ over and over again — but he didn’t seem to hear her. After a while, she started to ignore him. Whatever nightmare he was having, Olira couldn’t help him with. She hardly had the strength to talk.
Her small farm came into view; a modest, single-story building with a dense forest behind it. The farmhouse, constructed from rough-hewn timber and stone, looked weathered but sturdy. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, making her think of the warmth and comfort that awaited her inside.
To the left of the house stood a small barn. The roof was patched with straw and old shingles. Beyond the barn lay a field of odd-looking, twisted plants. Some had gnarled stalks that reached up like skeletal fingers, some looked furry like animals crawling out of the soil. Some were protected by tarps, while some others stood alone in isolated patches, with no other plants nearby. Olira’s herb garden required careful planning and tending to keep the fragile and rare plants alive.
A small shed sat to the right of the house, used for storing tools and firewood. The door hung slightly ajar, swaying gently in the breeze. Beyond the farmhouse and the field was a small structure burrowed into the ground. A root cellar, to keep their winter supplies and produce to sell. The area around the farmhouse was cluttered with broken wagon wheels, discarded barrels, and an old plough that had seen better days. It appeared her brothers didn’t care to keep the farm neat in the few days of her absence.
Olira’s eyes, heavy with fatigue, scanned the familiar scene. She longed for the comfort of her bed, the thought of sinking into the rough but welcoming sheets barely keeping her moving. She dismissed the thought. Sadly, she still had things to sort out before she could surrender herself to sleep and rest.
She trudged towards the house, leading the mule with the unconscious man still strapped to the makeshift stretcher. As she drew closer, a flash of movement caught her eye. She spotted a horse tied to the fence outside her house. Her heart sank with a mix of feelings. She recognised the horse. Not many people in Oxreach or neighbouring farms kept riding horses like that. Mules and donkeys were more affordable and perfectly suited for hard work. A few of the larger farms down the south of Oxreach had slow but sturdy plough horses. Thoroughbred riding horses like Jygan’s was a luxury. Jygan hardly ever travelled outside Oxreach and he rarely left his tannery where he lived alone. Yet, he adored this old chestnut mare.
Olira flushed with warmth and embarrassment, and a sprinkle of irritation. Jygan was here. His presence likely meant he was worried because she had been delayed. The thought was comforting, yet she also felt a twinge of annoyance at the idea of needing to be looked after.
When she was near enough, she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled sharply. The sound cut through the air. She waited, her breath visible in the afternoon chill. Less than ten seconds later, Gilann bolted out of the front door, closely followed by Jygan and Torren.
Gilann was the first one to reach her. At sixteen years of age, he was the oldest of Olira’s four younger brothers. His mousy hair was the same brown colour as Olira’s and his dark eyes were too serious for anyone his age. Worry was etched on his face and his brows were drawn together when he noticed the man on the stretcher.
“Olira,” he gasped, before skidding to a stop in front of her. “You’re late! Townsfolk said there were sightings of bandits near Attlecana Grove. I thought you were—”
“Not bandits,” Olira said. “Loyalists.” She shared a look with Jygan.
The tanner’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t comment. Not in front of the kids. “We were about to go search for you,” he said. “Are you okay?”
From this close, Jygan’s smell would have watered Olira’s eyes. Tanning leather was a stinky business, and the smell had sunk deep into Jygan’s skin and beard. However, the slave had already ruined Olira’s sense of smell. As soon as she took care of the more urgent business, she was going to pray to Alunwea for a new nose.
“I’m okay,” she sighed. “Just help me get him inside.”
“Who’s this?” Gilann narrowed his eyes on the slave. “Is that a slave tattoo?” His scowl deepened and his face twisted in disgust.
“Wow!” ten-year-old Torren exclaimed after inspecting the slave. “Not just any slave! He’s a beast!”
“Olira?”
“I’ll explain later,” Olira snapped. She softened her voice as she turned to the tanner. “Jygan, can you do me a favour?”
“Anything,” he said without hesitation. He was ruggedly handsome, and he had a muscular build. Despite the permanent smell that lingered after him, Olira found him somewhat attractive, and extremely irritating, because their every encounter left her feeling confused and full of self-doubt.
Olira shrugged off her backpack and pushed it in Torren’s arms. She turned to Jygan. “I left the rest of my supplies behind, at that inn near Attlecana Grove.”
“The Wicked Mirror?”
“Yes, that's the one.”
“I’ll go fetch them,” he said without waiting for her to ask. He scowled at the stretcher. “I’ll give you a hand with him first.”
Gilann was still staring at the purebred, his eyes wide with fury. “Olira, why do you have a slave…”
“I’ll explain later. Torren, take that bag inside and boil some water.”
“Is he a purebred?” Torren’s eyes gaped at the tattoo with awe. “What happened to him?”
“Clean bandages, Asennamon roots, and Stripefang Blossom leaves. Go!” Olira said firmly. Torren flinched and hurried inside. “Where are Andar and Kowas?” Olira asked as she scanned the farmyard.
“I sent them to Kantors’ house to stay overnight,” Gilann said. Olira sighed in relief. At least she didn’t have to deal with them tonight. “Olira, seriously, did you buy that slave?”
“I said later,” Olira snapped. “Can you please give Jygan a hand and get him inside? Then I’ll need you to go get Varelya.”
“Now?” Gilann glanced at the orange sky. “It’ll be night in a few hours.”
“Tell her it’s an emergency. He’s dying.”
Gilann opened his mouth to protest, but Jygan tapped his shoulder. “Come on, do as your sister says. Give me a hand.” He nodded towards the stretcher.
Together, Jygan and Gilann carefully lifted the man, grunting under the weight but managing to carry him through the farmhouse door. Olira led them to the boys’ room where Torren, Andar and Kowas slept. Torren could sleep with Gilann tonight. She would find another place for the slave later.
The slave’s breathing was speeding up, becoming shallow and loud. The fever was consuming him. Olira shook her travel cloak off. Before she got to work, she turned to Gilann. “Go get Varelya,” she repeated. “Hurry.”
Gilann shot one last look at the slave, then grabbed his coat and bolted out of the house. Olira pulled Jygan aside and described where she had stashed the bags, behind the inn.
“Why haven’t you left them with the innkeeper?” Jygan asked, confused.
Olira shook her head. “Be careful on the way there, okay.”
“Why?”
The slave started shaking and muttering those pleads again — “Please, no, please, don’t” — so Olira shook her head. “Just tell me you’ll be careful.”
“Okay.” Jygan nodded, though he seemed disturbed.
When they both left, Olira stripped the slave of his clothes and unwrapped the dirty bandage on his leg. She briefly glanced at the old scars and the round burn marks across his chest. As long as they were not life threatening, they didn’t warrant a second glance.
An ugly, yellow puss leaked out of the wound and the surrounding flesh looked purple and rotten, with red blemishes spreading from it. Olira chewed inside her cheek as she wondered if it was too late. How far had the infection gone? Were herbs and poultices going to be enough to give the slave a fighting chance?
Just as she opened her mouth to call for Torren, the boy dashed into the room, clean bandages in one hand, and a bucket of cold water in the other. “I’m boiling some water in the kitchen,” he muttered, before dashing out again to bring Olira’s herbs.
Olira sent him to put Warrior in the barn before coming back to help her. They spent the next hour cleaning the slave’s wound with water mixed with Gissuri powder and other herbs. Torren followed Olira’s instructions to make a paste with the Asennamon root and spread it on the infected wound. The roots were good at soaking up the infection of the flesh. Olira made a mixture out of Stripefang Blossom leaves and helped the slave drink it.
The slave’s eyes fluttered, but never stayed open for long. He was still shaking, but not as violently. Olira wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. She wiped his forehead with a damp cloth and gave him more water. His whimpers made her uneasy and, as selfish as it felt, she wished he would stop. At least he was quieter now.
“Please, please, no,” the slave whispered, breathless and with a quiver in his voice. His fingers twitched.
“That one looks like a bird.” Torren pointed at one of the circular brands on the man’s chest. He had been studying the purebred’s battle scars with fascination.
“They’re just old scars. We’re done here.” Olira pulled the blanket over the slave’s chest. “Nothing else we can do until Varelya gets here. We’ll let him rest.”
“Is he really a purebred?” Torren whispered, as if he was afraid the slave would hear. “They say purebreds don’t have rhoas . Is it true?”
“Don’t you worry about him,” Olira said tiredly as she hurried him out of the room.
Torren kept talking excitedly as they headed into the small but cosy living area with an open kitchen and dining table.
“Are we keeping him? How did we afford him? He’s a beast, isn’t he? I’ve heard they were monstrous! He doesn’t look monstrous…”
Olira rubbed her face, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the last two days collapsing on her shoulders. Her eyes drifted to the wall-mounted stove in the kitchen area. Her stomach was rumbling. She played with the idea of cooking herself something to eat.
Maybe after sitting and catching her breath for a couple of minutes.
She dragged her feet to the space in front of the old stone hearth where Olira and all four of her brothers had a comfy chair or cushions to sit on at night. They’d either read on their own, or talk about the Twelve Riders, townspeople, or herbs.
She dropped herself on her large armchair. “Did you make sure Warrior is comfortable?”
The armchair had been a mistake. As soon as the soft cushions of the chair hugged Olira’s back, her eyes closed. Somewhere far away, Torren was talking, but Olira had already drifted into sleep.
The smell of porridge woke her.
She moaned softly and rubbed her eyes with her fists, trying to straighten up. She had been dreaming about searching for a wild plant in the woods, one with invisible leaves and a face with sharp teeth and blank, grey eyes. Just as she’d spotted it, it had reached out and snapped Olira’s hand off with its teeth.
She scoffed, shaking off the weird dream. Those grey eyes belonged to the slave. Her mind was too preoccupied with him, that was all.
A bowl of porridge sat at the table. Despite the mess in the kitchen, she smiled. Torren, Alunwea bless his heart, must have thought she was hungry and tried to cook for her. Almost burnt it too, as the smell suggested.
Just as she moved to get off the couch, she paused, scowling at the bowl. There was no steam rising off it. She glanced out the window, trying to figure out how long she’d been sleeping. It couldn’t have been much. The sun was only just setting. Where was Torren? Why hadn’t he woken her up?
Then she heard it again.
It wasn’t the smell of burnt porridge that woke her. It was the sound. A soft thump, barely audible. A kick. Coming from one of the bedrooms.
She lunged out of her chair, dashing into the boys' room.
Her stomach churned with dread even before she pushed the door open. The sight that greeted her inside was the embodiment of her greatest fear ever since she’d laid eyes on that purebred monster.
The room was in disarray, the few belongings of the boys scattered across the floor. The blanket and the pillows were tossed aside. In the middle of the room, the purebred loomed like a raging animal. He had pinned Torren under his weight, his massive frame dwarfing the small, helpless figure of Torren. His hands were wrapped tightly around Torren’s neck, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh with terrifying strength. Torren’s mouth was slack, and his arms twitched weakly. His face was an ugly shade of purple.
The slave jerked his head up. His face was contorted into a mask of rage, and his eyes were glazed with fever and pain. With his lips pulled back, revealing a snarl, he looked less like a human and more like a beast. In a single heartbeat, Olira was convinced that everything they’ve said about purebreds was true: They didn’t have any rhoas . They weren’t human. That twisted face, those eyes, couldn’t have belonged to a human being.
The slave blinked, a glimmer of confusion dawning in his face. His hands relaxed on Torren’s neck a split second before Olira opened her mouth.
“ Prihjtivaviula! Prihjtivaviula! Prihjtivaviula! ”
The slave’s limbs convulsed with such violence, he was thrown off Torren like struck by an invisible force. He didn’t make any noise as he collapsed and went rigid, shaking and spasming on the floor.
Olira rushed to Torren, grabbed him under his arms, and dragged him to the door, away from the slave. The boy’s face was still purple and his eyes were rolled back in his skull.
“Torren!” Olira screamed, rocking him. Was she too late? “Torren! Torren, wake up.” Her voice quivered as she slapped the boy’s face with enough force to leave a handprint.
Torren coughed. His eyes fluttered and he took a wheezing breath in, then coughed more.
“Merciful Alunwea,” Olira gasped.
She cradled Torren’s head in her lap, supporting him to sit up. Dark marks bloomed on his tender skin. Tears streamed down his face, and red veins streaked the whites of his eyes. He kept coughing and gasping shallow breaths, but he was alive.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Olira said, doing her best to coat her voice with calm. She hugged Torren to her chest as her eyes trailed back to the slave.
The beast’s back was arching, his heels digging into the floor. His mouth was open, but his voice was stuck in his throat. A silent agony twisted his face. There was no visible source of pain, but he sure seemed like his bones were on fire, eating his flesh from the inside out.
Pain Word is used to punish him, Master Hasrey had told.
So, this must have been his Pain Word. In her panic upon entering the room, Olira didn’t have time to recall his First Word. She’d memorised them all, but had blurted out the first one that came to her mind.
If he wasn’t hurting enough already, Olira would have grabbed something and started hitting him. Rage boiled inside her. He’d attacked her little brother! After everything she’d done for him. All the trouble she’d been through to save his life! And this was what he’d done?
A few seconds. If Olira had been a few seconds later, Torren would have been dead.
She had brought a monster into her house. A mindless, deadly weapon. Her hands curled into fists as she shuddered in fury.
The slave’s convulsions weakened, though his muscles continued twitching. Olira tensed, holding Torren close protectively. She half expected the slave to attack them and readied to speak his Word again. Her voice froze on her lips when the slave rolled face down, his forehead on the floor, and locked his fingers behind his head. Shudders ran down his body as he tried to bite down a whimper. His posture was a surrender. Although he wasn’t begging out loud, the way he stilled his body and tried to appear as unthreatening as possible was a silent plea for mercy.
“Why did you attack him?” Olira yelled, her voice sounding more shaken than she would have liked. Torren coughed again, still gasping laboriously.
The slave shook his head. His face was hidden under his thick arms. “I… I don’t know, Owner,” he said. His voice was strained, like it was hard to talk.
Olira frowned. That wasn’t a good enough answer. When Torren wheezed painfully, she prioritised. She had to make sure Torren was okay. She was going to deal with the slave later.
“Stay where you are. Do not move a muscle, do you understand me?” Olira snarled.
The slave nodded vaguely. “Yes, Owner.”
One moment, he was a monster trying to strangle a little boy. In the next one, he was a docile slave, eager to obey. Olira didn’t trust him. Not at all.
“ Prihj …” she started, then snapped her lips together before finishing the word. Part of her took pleasure in the way the slave had tensed and flinched in fear. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the correct word. “ Padlociatius, ” she said hesitantly.
The slave’s muscles went slack. Olira scowled suspiciously. According to Master Hasrey, the slave would stay paralysed for a minute. It would be enough.
Scooping Torren up in her arms, she backed out of the room, leaving the door open. Keeping an eye on the slave over her shoulder, she opened the door across from Torren’s room. She put Torren on Gilann’s bed, still glancing back at the slave through the open doors and listening for any sign of movement.
“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay,” she muttered as she tilted Torren’s head back to check on the bruising on his neck.
Torren’s body tensed and he pushed Olira away as he bent over to the side and vomited.
He wheezed and coughed, and when he had enough breath, he started crying. Olira soothed him in her arms, coaching him to take slow and calm breaths.
It took a lot more than one minute, which meant the slave’s temporary paralysis had passed. When she looked over her shoulder, she could still see him. He was lying on the floor with his hands behind his head, just as she’d asked him. Had he passed out from his injury? Or was he just behaving now?
“Torren, what happened? What were you doing there?” she asked when Torren had calmed down enough to talk.
“His pillow,” Torren said hoarsely. “I was checking up on him. His pillow fell, and I was tucking it back under his head. He attacked me.”
“Don’t ever go near him again, okay?”
Torren nodded, lowering his gaze.
Olira stood, pushing her shoulders back. “Stay in Gilann’s room until I come back.”
“Where are you going?”
She glared at the slave across from the hall. Her face turned to stone. “I’m going to take care of him.”