13. OLIRA
13
OLIRA
Olira led Varelya through the farmyard, the lantern in her hand flickering as they approached the barn. The cool night air was filled with distant sounds of rustling leaves, and the moonlight painted the weathered wooden structure with an eerie paleness.
The healer didn’t hide her confusion as she scowled at the barn and followed Olira with hesitant steps. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she walked with a rigid gait. “Why is the patient in the barn?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and disapproval.
“Yeah, Olira, why is the patient in the barn?” Gilann repeated,. He followed them behind, carrying Varelya’s large bag of medical equipment and supplies. His emphasis didn’t escape Varelya’s attention, as the healer shot Olira a penetrating gaze.
Olira pressed her lips together. “It’s complicated,” she said. “You’ll see in a minute.”
When they reached the barn, Olira pulled the heavy door open for Varelya. Before Gilann could follow the healer inside, she pushed him back, and snatched the bag off his hands. “You wait outside.”
“Why?”
“Gilann!” She didn’t say more. Gilann gritted his teeth as he stubbornly continued the staring contest. It was getting harder to win arguments against Gilann, but tonight she could not lose. “Go check on Torren.”
“Why does Torren need to be checked on?”
“Go find out.”
“Can I get some light in here, please?” Varelya asked impatiently.
Olira followed Varelya inside and shut the door behind her, leaving Gilann to fume quietly outside. She raised her lantern, the warm light casting long shadows across the barn’s interior. The animals raised their complaints at the sudden light disturbing their sleep and retreated further back into their stalls. Warrior brayed sleepily.
“Why am I here?” Varelya asked with a sigh. “Gilann didn't say much, only that it wasn't one of your brothers who needed urgent help.”
“It’s this way.” Olira guided Varelya to the farthest stall, chewing her lower lip with the anticipation of her reprimand. She had made sure the slave was still in his stall before Varelya showed up; she had spent the last two hours watching the barn doors, and she had walked in to check on him just before. He had been feverish and unconscious, but still alive.
She pushed the stall door open and stood aside. The air smelled like sweat and rot. She could tell the slave hadn't moved since her last visit. He blinked his eyes at the light filling the stall, then stared blankly at the ceiling. His skin was pale and clammy, and his chest heaved rapidly. He made no effort to move, maybe because the fever had left him too weak to move, or maybe out of fear of being paralysed again.
Varelya took one look at the man, her eyes widening with confusion. “Olira, why is this man chained?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
Before Olira could answer, Varelya’s gaze fell on the slave’s tattoo. Her confusion turned to shock and disdain. “A slave?” she spat, her tone dripping with contempt. “Olira!”
“It’s not what you think.”
“You bought a slave?”
“I didn’t buy him.”
“But you own him, right? And keeping him chained. In your barn?”
“Varelya, please don’t say anything.”
Varelya gave her a long stare that left Olira feeling like a child caught being naughty. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She met Varelya’s gaze but didn’t offer much explanation. “It’s complicated.”
Varelya shook her head. “Your father would have been appalled,” she said softly.
The truth in those words stabbed Olira’s chest. She didn’t need to hear them from Varelya, she already knew. “Can you just help him?”
Varelya’s expression hardened. “What are you planning to do with this poor thing, Olira?”
Olira wanted to object and say he wasn’t such a poor thing. He was a purebred. A natural killer. “What do you think I’m planning?”
“You know your father—”
“I know my father was against the slave trade. And yes, I own him. And I plan to sell him, because the idea of keeping him is just as disgusting. So now, can you please help him?”
In all the years they had known each other, Olira had never spoken to Varelya like this. The healer, though only ten years older than Olira, was one of the most revered people in Oxreach. She was also a close friend of her mother’s. Olira felt the weight of Varelya’s disapproving gaze, the silent judgment pressing heavily upon her. She refused to crumble under that gaze.
Finally, with a resigned sigh, Varelya took her coat off. She moved closer to the man as she began to examine the wounds. Olira put the healer’s bag near her and brought the lantern close so there was plenty of light. “His right leg,” she said. “Infected cut. Nothing else seems that urgent.”
Varelya ignored her explanation and examined the man from head to toe before focusing on the leg. Olira remained silent, her attention divided between watching Varelya work and monitoring the slave, ready to speak his First Word again at the first sign of violence. The slave’s laboured breathing picked up when Varelya pulled the bandages free and started examining the leg, but he closed his eyes and kept his hands flat on the stretcher.
“I put Asennamon and Stripefang Blossom on it,” Olira explained.
Varelya nodded but didn’t reply. She resumed examining the slave’s leg, her experienced fingers gently probing the inflamed, discoloured flesh. Olira already knew the infection was severe. Varelya concluded her examination and sat back for a moment, considering her options. She reached for her bag and started pulling her tools out. Not the poultices and powders she typically used, but the sharp instruments wrapped in dark leather.
Olira’s stomach clenched with dread as she watched Varelya lay out the tools: a bone saw, a thin knife, and heavy bandages.
“No,” Olira said. “There has to be another way.”
The dread in Olira’s voice drew the slave’s attention. He turned his head, causing the chain to rattle slightly, and glanced at the sharp tools. His eyes widened, and he went very still.
“The infection is severe, and it’s spreading,” Varelya said.
“I put Asennamon— ”
“You were too late. This wound is clearly at least a few weeks old, received inconsistent care, and is now turning gangrenous.”
The purebred was so still, it sent a cold shiver down Olira’s back. His fingers twitched, his eyes fixed on the bone saw, as he listened to the two women discuss his fate.
“I can’t let you sever his leg,” Olira said.
“That’s the best way to save his life.”
“But if you cut his leg...”
Varelya gave Olira a disgusted look. “He will be worthless, right?” Olira clenched her jaw. Shame was like a bucket of cold water poured down her head. She bit her tongue to hold back an angry retort.
“You can’t make a profit out of a one-legged slave,” Varelya continued with spite. “So you’d rather let him die than lose the leg.”
Olira’s blood rushed to her cheeks, but she was relieved when Varelya shook her head and pushed the tools aside. With a resigned sigh, she started pulling other tools out of her bag: a flat needle and a bowl. “I can try draining it, but it’s already spread so much. If I can’t get it all out, he may die.”
Olira cast a quick look at the slave’s frozen expression. “It’s worth the risk.”
“This will be excruciatingly painful for him. You better get Gilann in here to help hold him down.”
“I can restrain him,” Olira said through clenched teeth.
The slave stared back at the ceiling and looked somewhat deflated. His throat bobbed when he swallowed, his chest heaving rapidly.
“Olira, I’m going to drain the pus out. I have to be very very thorough and this will be extremely painful for him. I need him to be perfectly still. How are you planning to restrain a man triple your size…” She trailed off, her eyes drawn to the purebred’s tattoo. She only now noticed the intricate details that marked the slave as purebred. She hardly contained her surprise.
“How did you—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Olira dismissed.
“Olira! Purebreds are abominations.”
“I’ll restrain him,” Olira said. “Tell me when.”
She refused to squirm under Varelya’s judgmental gaze. The healer’s expression hardened and Olira knew she would never be able to earn the woman’s favour again. With another shake of her head, Varelya began to prepare for the procedure. “I need clean water,” she demanded, her voice cold and demanding. “A fresh cloth, warm towels, and the darkest Exiram Leaves you have. Heat it into a warm poultice and add Gissuri and Bitter Rue if you have any. I’ll need a separate batch of Gissuri with Abyss Ice , watered down.”
“I don’t have any Abyss Ice. I sold it all…”
“ Etegorn Thorn ?”
Olira nodded.
“It’ll do. Go.”
Olira hurried to gather the items the healer requested. She had already prepared boiled and cooled water, clean towels, and some of the herbs she had anticipated Varelya might ask for. She had another pot of boiling water on the stove as well. It didn’t take her long to gather everything else and return to the barn.
Varelya immediately set to work. She soaked the cloth in the water and began to clean the wound with gentle, deliberate strokes. The man remained rigid, his eyes darting around as the dread in his chest grew. Olira could see the pain etched on his face, even though he was doing his best to remain still.
Once the wound was clean, Varelya lathered the leg in watered down Gissuri and Etegon Thorn . She wore gloves to keep her hands from going numb. She then picked up the flat needle and gave Olira a subtle nod.
Olira felt an unreasonable rush of nervousness as she stepped forward and said, “ Padlociatius .”
All the tension drained out of the slave’s muscles. His face relaxed. Olira could convince herself that he was peaceful if she ignored his eyes. They reflected the agony he was about to endure. The shudder that coursed through Varelya's shoulders suggested the young healer found the purebred's wakeful stillness just as creepy.
“Unnatural,” Varelya said, drawing the Twelve's sign in the air. “Everything about purebreds is just wrong.”
“You might want to hurry up.”
Varelya took a deep breath and made the first incision, the scalpel slicing through the infected tissue. Nothing changed in the purebred’s expression, but Olira imagined him screaming nonstop inside his head. Varelya worked quickly and confidently, draining the pus from the wound. The foul-smelling fluid seeped into the bowl she had placed beneath the leg, the air thick with the scent of infection.
Olira didn’t wait for the subtle signs that signalled the paralysis fading. She counted in her head and kept repeating the First Word at intervals. She reminded herself that the First Word wasn’t causing the slave any more pain, and that this was for his benefit. If he were to thrash and scream, it would only make Varelya’s job harder. Besides, she had kept him paralysed before, only a few hours ago. She didn’t have any problems with that then. Why did this bother her now?
Varelya continued slicing and squeezing the slave’s flesh. One look at the gaping wound and the amount of blood and dark yellow pus made Olira nauseous. She couldn’t imagine the horror of being trapped in a haze of pain, unable to scream for relief. She kneeled beside Varelya and put her hand on the man’s suntanned arm. It probably didn’t make much difference for him. She doubted he would even notice the touch while drowning in a torment like this. Not to mention the slave was a monster who had almost crushed Torren’s neck just hours ago. Still, it felt like the right thing to do.
She lost count of how many times she repeated the First Word. Varelya continued to drain the wound, her hands steady and precise. Just as Varelya was making sure all the pockets full of pus were thoroughly emptied, Olira noticed the paleness of the man’s hand.
“Umm, Varelya?” she said, pointing.
The healer glanced at the hand, then leaned over the man’s face. “I can’t tell when he’s in this state…”
“You can’t tell what?”
Varelya held her hand over the slave’s mouth, feeling his breath. She then cupped her ear on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. She made a concerned noise.
“What?”
“Elevate his leg,” Varelya said as she hurried with the poultice. “And wrap him in a blanket.”
“Why?”
“Do it.”
Olira didn’t waste time with more questions. She scrambled into the next stall and grabbed a bucket and one of Warrior’s saddle blankets. Running back, she slid the bucket upside down under the man’s left leg and she wrapped his upper body with the blanket.
“Give him water. And try talking to him,” Varelya grunted. “Keep him calm.”
“His body is as calm as—”
“Keep his mind calm.”
Olira grabbed a clean towel, soaked it in water, and slid a corner of it between his lips. She squeezed the towel slowly, letting the water trickle into the slave’s mouth, and watching his throat bob as he swallowed. Leaning close to the man, she put her hand on his unusually clammy and pale arm. “It’s almost over,” she said with the most soothing voice she could muster under the circumstances. “You’re gonna be okay. Just… just keep breathing.” She doubted the man was listening, but she kept talking, because there was nothing else she could do. The man’s muscles vibrated barely noticeably. If it wasn’t for the uncanny effects of the First Word, he would have been convulsing.
When Varelya finished applying the poultice on the open wound, she wrapped the leg tightly with clean bandages. Slowly, colour started to return to the man’s pale limbs. Olira removed the towel from his lips. Relief washed over her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just pulled the slave from the brink of death.
“Have you got any Tusk Flower Root ?” Varelya asked.
“Yes.”
“Bring all. He will need a very strong pain relief.”
Olira didn’t hesitate. She ran to the root cellar and grabbed the entire pouch of Tusk Flower Root from her storage. She returned to the barn just in time to witness the slave stirring.
“Let him,” Varelya said as she lifted a hand to stop Olira. “But try to calm him down. He’ll be confused and likely violent. Try to keep him from harming himself until the Tusk Flower knocks him to sleep.”
The slave’s fingers twitched, then his breathing became erratic. Olira knelt beside him, her voice more tired than gentle as she spoke to him. Meanwhile, Varelya started grinding the Tusk Flower Root into a drink, and mixing it with other powders from her bag. The slave’s eyes sharpened with awareness, and a groan escaped his lips, quickly escalating into a muffled cry.
“Easy now,” Olira said. “It’s over, you’re gonna be okay.”
The man thrashed weakly, attempting to sit up, a growl-like scream spilling from his lips. He collapsed back down and shuddered with harsh, rugged breaths. Varelya moved swiftly, pinching his nose and pouring the drink down his throat. She pulled back just in time as the slave started flailing his arms. Olira kept talking to him.
Gradually, the man's screams subsided, and he slumped back, exhausted. Within minutes, his head dropped to the side, and he slipped into a restless sleep. Olira let out a breath. She gently brushed the man’s arm in a calming gesture, then pulled her hand back.
Varelya stood, wiping her hands on a cloth. “I’ve done what I can for tonight,” she said. The disapproval had returned to her face, evident in the tight lines on her forehead and the clipped tone of her voice. “Keep him warm and make sure he drinks plenty of water and gets enough food. Watch for persistent fever and chills. Rapid heartbeat. Confusion, disorientation, and odd behaviours.”
“Odd behaviours?” Olira repeated. “He’s a purebred. Everything he does is odd.”
Varelya shrugged. “You’ll have to figure what’s normal for a purebred. If his condition doesn’t improve by tomorrow, you will have to consider more drastic measures. Cauterising or severing that leg.”
“Wait, me?”
“Yes. I will not be involved with that.” She started packing her tools, her movements brisk and impatient.
“But you’ll come back to check on him, right?”
“No. I don’t care for slaves, Olira. Especially purebreds.”
“How could you say that? Aren’t you the one who always says everyone deserves the best care you can give? He needs help.”
Varelya stopped packing her tools to give Olira a piercing stare. “What’s going to happen to him when he recovers, Olira? What will you do to him?”
Olira pressed her lips shut. Varelya nodded like the silence was all the answer she needed.
“You’re not saving his life. You’re condemning him to a life of misery. He’s better off dead.” She put her coat back on, turning her back to Olira as she muttered. “I’m not going to go out of my way to save him, just so people like you can make a profit out of his flesh.”
Olira took a deep breath. She tried to remind herself that Varelya had come all the way in the middle of the night and had spent hours in her barn to help her. She bit her tongue to hold back an angry retort and instead said, “Thank you for your time, Varelya.”
Varelya gave her instructions on how she would need to keep expressing the pus over the next few days and apply warm poultice. She warned her that the next few hours would be critical, and that Olira should watch him closely. She gave her a list of herbs to speed up the recovery and help the slave regain his strength. Then she took her belongings and headed for the door.
Olira watched her leave, the healer’s half-hearted warning echoing in her head. Odd behaviours . The first rays of the sun were beginning to rise outside. She felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Still, there was no time to rest.
She settled beside the man, adjusting the blanket to keep him warm. Her eyes were heavy with fatigue, but she forced herself to remain alert and watch over him. She couldn’t stop thinking about Varelya’s words. That saving the man would only condemn him to a life of misery.