26. OLIRA
26
OLIRA
Olira lay in her bed, staring at the wooden beams above. The familiar creaks and groans of the old farmhouse blended with the howling wind outside.
The night was bitterly cold, colder than it had any right to be in mid-Autumn. Frostbringer’s Eve arrived earlier than Olira had expected this year. The air turned unnaturally cold, and the violent winds carried a biting chill on the night of the Frostbringer’s Eve. The weather softened for the remaining of the Autumn, with occasional light rains, before the winter rolled in with its full intensity. The folks in Oxreach rightfully believed Frostbringer’s Eve was a prelude to winter and foretold how harsh it would be each year. By the sounds of the howling winds outside, this was going to be a tough one.
Olira curled tighter beneath her heavy quilts, drawing her knees up to her chest. Under the layers, she could feel the warmth of the heated rock nestled at the foot of her bed, a trick passed down through generations to stave off the night’s chill. But even that warmth wasn’t enough to calm her restless mind. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the slave in the barn.
She had prepared him for the harsh night, providing every blanket and coat she could find in the house. She also arranged a heated rock for him as well, but she couldn’t deny the fact that if she was shivering in her warm bed, the barn must have been freezing.
The preparations for the Frostbringer’s Eve had consumed her thoughts all day. She had spent hours in the garden, gathering what she could in an early harvest. The hardy roots — carrots, turnips, and parsnips — had been pulled from the earth. The more delicate herbs, those that wouldn’t survive the night’s frost, had been clipped and bundled, hung to dry in the kitchen. Tarps had been stretched over the remaining plants, their edges weighed down with stones to keep the biting wind from tearing them loose. She had secured the most valuable of them all — the Palleogano plant — with a sturdy, overhead box that she had custom made a few years ago. She had even set aside seeds for radishes, leafy greens, Crimsonplum, Siglesil Weed , and other fast-growing herbs to plant the next morning, to take advantage of the short window of warmth that followed Frostbringer’s Eve. If she could squeeze in one last harvest before the Winter truly took hold, and with her root cellar nearly full thanks to Jygan’s help, she could finally ease her mind about the winter, regardless of if she sold the slave or not.
She frowned. Of course she would sell the purebred. She needed the money. But it still felt good to know she had a full root cellar for the winter, and more produce to harvest. It took some of the pressure off.
Despite the exhausting work of the day, sleep remained elusive. Olira turned on her side, pressing her face into the pillow, but it was no use. The image of the slave, chained to the stall and shivering under his blankets, haunted her thoughts.
With a frustrated sigh, she sat up, the cold air biting at her through three layers of her nightgown, chemise, and leggings. She couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she had to do something. Dangerous or not, purebreds got cold too. She couldn’t let him spend the night of the Frostbringer’s Eve in the barn. It wasn’t right.
Throwing off the blankets, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, gasping when her feet met the cold floor she could feel through the thick rug. She quickly dressed. She pulled the heated rock out of her bed on her way out and placed it in the hearth in the living quarters. She fed the fire with more firewood, moving quietly, though the floorboards still creaked softly under her feet. There was no need to be sneaky. If her brothers could sleep through the howling wind that rattled the windows and pounded at the walls, they weren’t going to wake up to the sound of her footsteps.
She lit a lantern, then she braced herself with a deep breath, before pulling open the heavy door. As she stepped into the night, the cold hit her like a wall. The sky was clear, the stars glittering like shards of ice, and the moon bathed the farm in a pale, ghostly light. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and started toward the barn, her breath puffing out in clouds before her.
She hesitated at the barn’s door, her hand resting on the rough wood. She had to know. She had to know if she could bring the slave inside her house and not see him strangling one of her brothers again. She pushed open the barn door; the hinges groaning in protest. The light of her lantern filled the space, casting fiendish shadows across the floor. When she stepped inside the stall, she found the man lying on his side, facing the wall, buried among the blankets. His large form was barely visible in the darkness. A pang of guilt took over her.
She stood with her back against the stall wall, watching the faint rise and fall of the purebred’s bulk. She hadn’t been overly quiet, and the light of the lantern was surely bright enough to disturb him from his sleep, but the purebred didn’t sit up. Was he pretending to sleep, or ignoring her? She waited for nearly ten minutes before she finally spoke. “Sit up, please.”
The purebred didn’t stir, nor startle. He simply rose from beneath the mound of blankets like a mythical sea monster. He sat with his back against the wall, facing Olira, though he kept his head down as usual. He pulled the blankets over himself to cover as much of his shivering limbs as possible.
“You’re not used to Frostbringer’s Eve,” Olira observed. “You’re not from West Kilrer, or Northern Chinderia.”
The purebred didn’t respond. The light of the lantern barely reached his face. Olira stood over him, her heart pounding in her chest as she still tried to read the man’s face.
“My guess is South,” she said. “Or West, somewhere beyond the Savage Mountains. I’ve heard the weather is warmer by the sea, near Ascain.”
Still no response, but he slowly bent his legs and propped his arms on his knees, his head sagging between his shoulders.
“I’m going to ask you questions,” Olira said firmly. “Convince me you are no danger to my family, or I will let you freeze here the rest of the night. Do you understand me?”
The purebred nodded. Olira placed her lantern in the space between them, causing the man to squint with discomfort. She wanted a clear view of his face before she resumed her questioning. Try to make him talk , Mistress Aeliana had suggested. Listen for any opinions and preferences. This was the only thing she hadn’t tested yet.
“Why did you attack my little brother?” Olira held her breath, her focus entirely on the purebred’s face.
“The pillow,” the purebred said, flatly. “He held a pillow over my face, Owner.”
Olira breathed through her nose. “Torren said he was just trying to make you more comfortable.”
“I was having a nightmare, Owner,” he said, his tone matter of fact, with no hint of an apology.
“About someone smothering you with a pillow?”
“Yes, Owner.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Owner.”
“So, you just happened to have a nightmare about someone smothering you with a pillow, right at the same moment my brother was fixing your pillow. Isn’t that a convenient coincidence?”
“No, Owner.”
“No?”
“No, it is not a convenient coincidence. It is how Master Gladwiel tried to kill me before you arrived, Owner.”
“ What? ”
“It is how Master Gladwiel tried to kill—”
“I heard what you said,” Olira snapped. Colour drained from her face as she pictured what the man described. “I meant, why would Gladwiel do such a thing?”
“I am not privy to my superiors’ thoughts.”
“I know Gladwiel has a physician and all the resources to save your leg. I sold him those resources. Why wouldn’t he save you?”
“I am not privy to my superiors’ thoughts,” he repeated.
Olira gritted her teeth. Her hands trembled from the cold and from the fury that warmed her blood. That greasy, sneaky piece of fiend turd called Gladwiel was up to something. Why was he desperate to get rid of the purebred, despite boasting about his worth? She glanced at the purebred’s injured leg, hidden beneath the blankets. “How did you get that injury?” she asked. “Earlier when I asked you about it, you made yourself pass out just to avoid talking about it. Why?”
“I did not have the strength to answer your questions then, Owner.”
Olira narrowed her eyes. “And you’re still avoiding my question. How did you get that injury?”
“From a fight, Owner.”
“Details,” she growled.
The purebred took a deep breath. His gaze drifted briefly, as if recalling a distant memory. “It was a tournament fight in a sand-based arena. I versed a purebred beast who was Raged and equipped with full plate armour, lor’qas, and a Kallakal shield. He was predominantly Stonewall class trained for Slayer’s Pit fights, but competent with Ironshield style for tournaments. I countered a blade catch and withdrew, followed with a draw cut, and then a gale slash, which he shield-bashed. He then feigned a cleave, pivoted and—”
“Enough,” Olira snapped. She scrutinised the purebred’s face for any sign of a mockery. She hadn’t understood half the things he had described. The purebred stared straight ahead, his face dead serious, his breath clouding in the cold air. “So, it happened in a fight?”
“Yes, Owner.”
“And your Owner didn’t bother patching you up.”
“He did, Owner.”
“Then why did it get infected so badly?”
“I do not have medical knowledge, Owner.”
Olira craned her neck, trying to relax her stiff muscles, as she took a deep breath. “So, you get injured, your Owner patches you up, your wound still gets infected. And then what? He figures you’ll die and decides to sell you to Gladwiel?”
“Yes, Owner.”
Olira rubbed her jaw. “I’m guessing Gladwiel didn’t know how badly you were injured when he bought you.”
“No, Owner.”
She drummed her fingers as she kept thinking. “Gladwiel must have overpaid for you. And rather than trying to save his profit, decided to cut his losses by killing you.” She shook her head. “I arrive just at the right moment, and he decides to palm you off to me instead and get rid of a debt, too.”
Her jaw ached from gritting her teeth. As she studied the man’s relaxed shoulders and casual expression, a strange sense of reassurance slowly blossomed, like a stubborn knot slowly untangling.
She went over everything she had heard from the slave and although some parts still didn’t sit well with her, most of it made sense. Even his explanation about attacking Torren matched with what her little brother had told her. Torren had said the purebred had looked terrified, not malicious, as he lashed out. She sighed. She was tired of suspecting the purebred’s every action. She wanted to be convinced that he was harmless.
“Are you hiding anything from me?” she asked carefully.
“No, Owner.” There was no hesitation, no hint of malice in the purebred’s voice.
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“Purebreds don’t lie, Owner.”
“One last question,” she said softly. She took a deep breath. “If I bring you inside, would you ever become a danger to me or my family?”
“No, Owner.”
“Look at me when you answer.”
The purebred’s dark eyes met hers. “I will not become a danger to you or your family, Owner.”
She nodded slowly, feeling overwhelmed with an unexpected relief. She reviewed the conversation one more time in her head, confirming that the man hadn’t expressed any opinions, ideas, or resentments. She pulled the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the slave’s collar.
“Gather all the blankets and follow me.”
They made their way to the farmhouse in silence. The purebred carried the blankets in one arm while leaning on his crutch with the other, though he had been relying on it less every day. Olira led him inside, the warmth of the hearth a welcome relief from the bitter cold outside. She guided him to her room, then pointed to the far corner beside a sturdy chest of drawers. The purebred moved there, laying out the blankets in a makeshift bed.
Olira watched him for a moment, her mind whirling with the awkwardness of seeing the strange man in her private space. She left the room briefly, returning with the heated rock from the hearth. She placed it carefully beside him, close enough to offer warmth but far enough not to disturb his rest. The purebred didn’t acknowledge her gesture. He simply lay down on the floor, pulling the blankets over himself and turning to face the wall. Almost instantly, his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even, as he drifted off to sleep without a care.
Olira stood over him, uncertain, the silence of the room amplifying the quiet sounds of his breathing. She crawled into her bed without shedding her clothes off. She was doubtful that she would find any rest tonight. But as the minutes passed, the warmth of the room and the rhythmic sound of the man’s breathing lulled her into a sense of calm.