15. OLIRA
15
OLIRA
Olira stood by the counter, scraping the last bit of stew from the pot onto a plate. The background chatter of her brothers filled the room. They were arguing over something Olira wasn’t paying attention to. She was focused on scooping the last bit of juice and vegetables from the bottom of the pot.
The living area of the farmhouse was cozy, the flickering light from the fireplace casting a warm glow over the furniture. Olira glanced at the sturdy wooden table, which was still cluttered with dinner dishes. “Torren?” she called to the boy who sat slumped on one of the five mismatched chairs. “Finish your food.”
Torren looked up. “I’m not hungry.”
Olira hated how Torren’s voice was still hoarse and scratchy. His neck was bruised, and every now and then, he winced.
“Try to eat a bit more.”
Torren looked down at his plate, his shoulders sagging. He forced a spoonful of stew into his mouth and winced as he swallowed. He put his spoon down, looking at Olira with a silent plea.
“Fine,” she said. “Bring it over here.”
Olira added Torren’s leftovers onto the plate as well.
“Go to the root cellar and get me a pouch of Numbleaf .”
Torren scowled. “But those are for selling,” he whispered.
“Mix two drinks. One for you and bring the other one here.” She pointed at the tray she was preparing. A pile of clean bandages, water, towels and a warm poultice filled half the tray.
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t argue, Torren. You sound like a croaking frog. Go.”
Torren dragged his feet to the door. Olira took the pot to the large wooden basin, where the twins were squabbling over something instead of doing the dishes like she asked them to. “What’s going on here?” she snapped.
“Andar’s not scrubbing properly!”
“Yes I am!”
“I can still see grease there!”
“Well then, you do it!”
“I was on scrubbing duty yesterday. It’s my turn to dry now.”
Olira rubbed her forehead. Keeping up with the twins, even when they were standing still and just talking, required an effort that Olira couldn’t spare tonight. She dumped the pot into the basin. “Stop squabbling and work faster. I want these done before I’m back.”
“Can I come?” Kowas asked eagerly. “I wanna see him.”
“No!” Olira said, her throat clenching. Kowas jumped at her tone, but Andar seemed unfazed. “You will both stay away from him. Do not go near him. Do you understand me?”
“Are we still gonna have to do the dishes once he’s feeling better?” Andar asked, oblivious to how Olira’s nostrils flared and the corner of her eye twitched.
“What?”
“Kantors have a slave and Tane says he never has to do the dishes or muck out the barn anymore.”
Olira went cold with fury. “We’re not keeping him.”
“But Gilann says dad hated people who bought and sold slaves. But if we keep him and treat him nice, of course he still has to do the dishes, then we won’t be—”
“We are not keeping him.” Finally, Olira’s frighteningly calm and low tone drew Andar’s attention. The boy looked up, his eyes widening at Olira’s expression. He bit his lips. Olira willed him to keep his mouth shut, but the boy didn’t know how. When the words filled his mouth, he did not know how to swallow them back.
“But if we sell him—” Andar started, but Kowas elbowed his brother hard enough to make him yelp. Andar forgot what he was about to say, and the two of them squabbled over whether Andar’s ribs were broken or not.
Olira walked away and praised herself for resisting the urge to dunk both their heads in the basin and slap them until they understood minding their own business. She resumed preparing the tray to take to the barn, her patience wearing thin. It was already dark and she would need a lantern too. She glanced at the armchairs positioned near the hearth, promising herself at least a few minutes relaxing by the fire after she was finished at the barn. She needed to just sit and think about nothing.
“That’s not enough,” Gilann said as he loomed over the plate, his expression grim. Olira sighed. She was wondering when he would come and talk to her.
“I know.” She went to the pantry to get the man some more food. Gilann followed her. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, as he watched her with disapproval.
“You shouldn’t have bought him.”
“Gilann, I told you what happened,” she hissed as she reached for a chunk of cheese and half a loaf of bread. “I’m sick of trying to explain myself. What would you have done? Walk away and forget about that money?”
“At least we wouldn’t have another throat to feed,” Gilann said. He thumbed over his shoulder at Torren, who had returned with the Numbleaf and was mixing it with two cups of hot water. “And we wouldn’t have to use the stuff we put aside for selling.”
“He’s in a lot of pain. Would you prefer I let him suffer and starve?”
Gilann at least had the sense to blush. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just… You should have…”
Olira yanked him into the pantry and pulled the door closed, so the others wouldn’t hear them. She pierced him with an icy stare, her voice dripping with anger. “Two hundred and fifty Blues, Gilann!” Gilann’s expression darkened, though his eyes grew large. “That’s what Gladwiel said he’s worth. Two hundred and fifty Blues.”
Gilann swallowed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He tried to hold Olira’s gaze, but caved in and looked away. “This isn’t right”
Olira had to soften her voice, because the look of shame on Gilann’s face was heartbreaking. And she had been hiding that same look under a mask of outrage. “I know. But not only can we pay Master Tholthus, we won’t even have to think about money for the next ten years!”
She paused for a moment to let Gilann imagine a future where they didn’t have to stress about the next winter. She bit her tongue to stop herself from reminding him that with that much money, Gilann could finally marry Elara and move to Brinescar like he always wanted. She could see that Gilann was already fantasizing about that future, and feeling dirty and conflicted about himself.
“Two hundred and fifty Blues, Gilann.” She squeezed his arm before walking back out. She added the bread and the cheese to the plate, and took the cup of Numbleaf tea from Torren. She sent the boy to sit and rest by the hearth, eliciting jealous protests from Andar and Kowas. Gilann came back out of the pantry just in time to help her balance the tray in one arm while holding the lantern in the other.
“It still feels dirty,” Gilann said as he held the door open for her. He gritted his teeth, but at least the target of his resentment wasn’t Olira anymore. “If Mum and Dad knew what we were doing, they would be—”
“Don’t. Don’t finish that sentence.” Olira glared at him, though it was her turn to look away this time. Tears welled in her eyes, and a lump sat in her throat. She straightened her shoulders and composed herself.
“It’s okay,” Gilann said softly. He shrugged, trying to look casual, as he searched for something to grasp onto. “Well, at least he’s a purebred.”
“So?”
“It’s not like…” Gilann shrugged again, scratching the back of his head. “You know… He doesn’t know any better. It’s just… I feel like it would have been worse if he was a freeborn or something.”
Olira understood what he meant. If the slave was a freeborn, who had a family somewhere, who resented Olira for what she was doing, who hated the life he was condemned to, it would have been much harder.
“They say purebreds don’t care, because it’s the only life they know. You know?”
It didn’t make her feel any better, it just kept her from feeling any worse.
“Just make sure Andar and Kowas finish their chores and get to bed.”
Olira walked to the barn, the tray weighing heavy in her arms. The cold night air nipped at her skin. It was still early Autumn but felt colder than last year. She avoided thinking about how cold the barn was going to be soon. She focused on how well the slave was improving.
It had been three days since Varelya drained the infection. The purebred had slept through most of it, eating and drinking when Olira brought pureed food to his mouth, groaning softly when Olira tended to his wound. She drained the pus, applied warm poultice, and changed his bandages every day. The slave’s eyes remained closed the entire time. His fever had reduced, and this morning Olira had noticed that the redness around the wound had started to recede too. He would pull through.
She pushed open the barn door, the soft creak of the hinges blending with the gentle rustling of the animals inside. She stepped in, the lantern's warm glow casting flickering shadows around the space. Warrior stuck his head out from his stall and greeted her. The mule at least seemed to be rested and happy.
As she walked to the slave’s stall, she expected to find the man sleeping again. She froze abruptly, almost dropping the tray.
The slave sat with his back against the wall, his head down, his arms at his sides. It must have cost him an effort to sit up. He didn’t move, but he slightly lowered his face as if the lantern's light disturbed his eyes. Despite his stillness, there was an air of intimidation about him. His broad shoulders and muscular frame seemed to fill the small space, making the stall feel cluttered.
He was still chained to the wall, the heavy iron collar snug around his neck. The chain lay slack over his shoulder, its length coiled beside him on the floor. Olira had turned the stretcher into a makeshift bed for him, piling it with heaps of blankets to keep him warm. Despite her efforts to make him comfortable, the sight of the chain was a stark reminder of what he was.
Olira took a hesitant step in, then forced herself to take a couple more steps. She deliberately avoided glancing at the hoop she had nailed to the wall. Putting the tray and the lantern down, she approached a couple more steps and looked down at the slave. She crossed her arms to hide her slightly trembling hands.
“Look at me,” she said firmly.
The man slowly lifted his head, his eyes locking onto hers. In the dim light, they looked dark, almost black, and his stare was vacant. No emotion. No anger, no resentment for what she had done to him. No fear. His face was shadowed by a few days' worth of beard. The stubble and the dark circles that underscored his eyes added to his rugged appearance.
Olira held that intense stare for as long as she could, ignoring the chill that ran down her spine. She stood a bit straighter, her expression hardening. “I don’t want to say the word,” she said, her tone sharp. “Will you stay still?”
“Yes, Owner,” the man said as he looked down at the straw covered floor.
Olira took a deep breath, reminding herself that the man was harmless. He was a purebred, for Twelve’s sake. They were raised to obey. Since the day he attacked Torren, he hadn’t displayed any other sign of aggression. She picked up the mug of Numbleaf tea and held it out to him. “This is for your pain. It’s not as strong as the other one, but…”
The slave took the mug and drank it all without a complaint. He handed it back to her.
“I’ll clean your wound and change your bandages, and then you can eat,” she said as she brought the tray closer. The man didn’t reply. Olira sat down, the straw crunching softly beneath her knees.
She set to work. She pulled the blankets off his lap. She had cut the side of his pants so she could access the bandages without taking his pants off each time. She carefully peeled away the old bandages, her fingers trembling slightly. The wound showed signs of healing. The swelling had reduced, and there was hardly any discharge. She cleaned the wound with the clean water and towel she had prepared, then reached for the poultices.
Her hands steadied as she worked, though her stomach still churned. She applied the poultices carefully, pressing the herbal mixture against the wound like Varelya had instructed. Olira’s eyes flicked to the slave’s face, searching for any reaction. The man didn't flinch, but she could see the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight tensing of his muscles that hinted at the pain he was enduring.
She worked faster, putting the poultice aside and grabbing the fresh bandages. The tension that built on her shoulders and the knots in her stomach annoyed her. The purebred hadn’t moved; his eyes still fixed on the floor, his hands relaxed at his side, his breathing shallow and controlled. He was perfectly still, doing exactly what she had asked him to do. Yet, there was something unnatural about him that made Olira want to hurry and get out of here.
“Stay still,” she said, out of a need to fill the chilling silence, and also to steady herself. Even the animals were quiet in their stalls. Everyone but her felt calm and content, while her heart raced like she was alone in the woods and surrounded by a pack of wolves. Or trapped by a lone mountain lion.
She couldn’t put her finger on why she felt so intimidated by the purebred. Was it the way he was built — a living instrument of violence — or his eerie calmness? She would have felt safer if he was yelling or sputtering threats and insults at her, or trembling in terror, or grumbling with resentment, or crying out in pain. Showing any emotion other than that vacant stare he fixed on the stray patterns of straw on the damp floor.
She finished up and gathered her things on the tray. She pushed the plate towards the man, noting how meagre the food looked now, compared to his size. Standing up, she brushed the straw and dirt from her skirt.
“I’ll come back in the morning,” she muttered pointlessly. The barn seemed to close in around her, the slave’s silence growing heavier. She picked up the tray and the lantern, and nearly bolted out of the barn, leaving the slave in the dark.
The cool air hit her like a splash of water as she let out a shaky breath. Even after she settled on her armchair by the fire, she still couldn’t silence the voice in her head, screaming at her that something was profoundly wrong about this purebred.