22. OLIRA
22
OLIRA
The midday sun cast long beams of light through the gaps in the barn's weathered wooden walls. Olira stood in the centre of the barn, watching the motes of dust that danced lazily in the air, waiting. Procrastinating.
She had changed the slave’s bandages earlier and given him some food. Then, she had kept herself busy pushing the bales of hay aside and clearing some space while she waited for the slave to finish eating. She was going to need a lot of room to do what she had in mind and doing the tedious work of pushing the bales gave her a moment to steady her nerves.
As if sensing her hesitation, Warrior brayed from his stall, telling her to stop being a coward and go through with it. She rolled her eyes at him. She grabbed the makeshift crutch she had left against the wooden wall. Then she took a deep breath before returning to the slave’s stall.
The purebred lay on the makeshift bed, his eyes open but staring at nothing in particular. He had pushed the empty plate aside. As she entered, he sat up slowly, not meeting her gaze or speaking a word. His hair was unkempt, and a rough stubble covered his jaw and cheeks. Look for a display of emotion , Mistress Aeliana had said, but the man’s face offered her nothing.
“I’m going to take that chain off,” she said before she approached him. She found herself giving him a warning every time she needed to approach him for something, as if soothing a wild animal so it doesn’t bite her hand off. She pulled the keys out from her pocket and knelt beside him. She carefully unlocked the collar, stood up, and handed him the crutch. “Stand up.”
The slave gripped the crutch tightly and pulled himself to his feet. His leg was healing well, but Olira suspected it still pained him. It was hard to tell. Every time she asked whether he was in pain, he said he was well, but the flesh was still swollen and stiff. So she still gave him Numbleaf , and he drank every drop of it. Leaning on the crutch, his muscular forearms bulging beneath his sleeves, the purebred waited for his next instruction.
“We need to get you moving again,” she said. “It will help with the stiffness.” She nodded towards the centre of the barn. “Walk back and forth. Take it easy.”
The slave complied without complaint. He took a tentative step, leaning heavily on the crutch, and began to walk. Olira stood aside and watched him for a moment, then she got to work. Still watching him out the corner of her eye, she picked up the chalk she had brought earlier and started drawing a Praying Ring on the dirt floor.
The purebred was focused on his task, his gaze fixed on the ground ahead of him. His worn-out shoes made a soft scuffle on the dirt floor as he hobbled and dragged his foot. Olira finished drawing the circle, then dusted his hands, still glancing at the slave for a reaction. Nothing. She stepped into the Praying Ring and kneeled in the centre.
“Hey,” she called out to the slave. He stopped and looked in her direction, his eyes fixed on the circle. “I need something red.”
The slave didn’t move, still staring at the circle, blinking.
“I’m praying to Alunwea,” Olira said impatiently. “I need to hold something red.” When he still didn’t move, she pointed at the apple she had brought from the pantry and left on a bale of hay. “Can you bring me that, please?”
The slave hobbled to the bale, picked up the apple, then approached her. He stood outside the Praying Ring and reached over the line to hand her the apple. Olira glanced at the slave’s feet, firmly planted outside the chalk line. Her heart raced. Was he avoiding stepping into the ring? Was Aeliana right about fiends taking over purebreds? She needed him to step inside.
And what if he was possessed? Would he become violent if she forced him? Well, as long as she stayed inside the ring, she was safe. She could paralyse him, drag him back inside the stall, chain him, then decide what to do with him.
“Are you expecting me to get up?” she snapped. “Bring it over.”
The purebred tucked the apple under his arm, then steadied himself with both hands on the crutch. As he stepped inside, his feet smeared some of the chalk away and broke the circle. He handed her the apple, then turned and limped back outside.
Olira stared at the disrupted line, her hands gripping the apple so tight, she almost bruised the fruit. She had to know for sure. She dug out her chalk and quickly fixed the line. Sitting back in the centre, she ordered, “Come pray with me.”
The purebred froze with his back to her. She wished she could see his face. Tension coursed through her muscles as she watched for the slave’s reaction. When he still didn’t move, Olira huffed. “I’m praying to Alunwea, the Goddess of Mercy. You could really use her favour right now.”
The purebred stood like a statue, his messy blonde hair catching the light that filtered through the gaps in the barn walls. Olira narrowed her eyes at the man’s back, her heart pounding in her ears. “What’s the problem?” she asked carefully.
“Purebreds don’t worship, Owner.” The purebred’s voice was quiet but clear, with no hint of any emotion. “We don’t have rhoas . Riders forsake slaves.”
This was the most words he had spoken in the last few weeks. Olira huffed. “Twelve Riders don’t forsake anyone. I’ll do the praying. You come sit.” She held her breath. Seconds stretched to hours before the man finally turned and complied, his face devoid of any emotion. She couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment, even though this was exactly what she had anticipated.
“And watch the line,” she warned him firmly as he approached the Praying Ring. He hesitated for a moment before lifting his foot over the line and walked into the Praying Ring.
Olira didn't know what she had been expecting, and she couldn’t quite explain the conflicting feelings of relief and frustration as the slave carefully settled himself beside her. He extended his right leg in front of him, moving slowly, and sat with his hands on his lap, staring straight ahead. She cast a quick glance at the chalk line to make sure it was unbroken, then composed herself, keeping the apple close to her heart, and started praying.
She held the Long Ritual, speaking twelve prayers each to the Twelve Riders and ending with a last prayer for the lost rhoas . Then she devoted a separate prayer to Alunwea, asking for mercy and forgiveness, and a quick recovery for the slave. The purebred sat without a stir the entire time. As soon as she was done, he stood and limped back into his stall, leaving Olira simmering with an unexplainable irritation and embarrassment.