The trip back took three days. Oly was barely allowed outside of the carriage: transporting slaves from one confinement to another was tricky business, so he was closely monitored and not really allowed to talk to anyone. He’d been allowed every necessity and given extra water to wash off his makeup, but the boredom of sitting in a box the size of a closet with nothing to occupy his mind was only marginally better than just sitting in his cell. At least he had a window to watch the countryside change, sliding from deep valleys, to rolling foothills, to golden grasslands, to the many gleaming rivers nourishing Sundenta’s wildflower fields and marshes.

Regardless, Oly tried not to be relieved when they rolled through a bustling city and arrived at the castle gates. The journey was over, but his mission began.

It was odd to think of this as the true start to his captivity, but there was a distinctly different quality to the way he was treated from the second he stepped out of the carriage and stretched his arms above his head. For one, there was a slave waiting just outside to welcome and escort him inside. The tattoo around her neck--enchanted to make sure she couldn’t leave the grounds in non-emergencies--looked like it was inked with care. Of course it was nothing intricate, but the ink wasn’t bleeding, there were no scars, and the pattern had purposeful consistency. Back in Kishalon, those who were lucky enough not to get a plain black band would have the freehanded doodles of an apprentice inker on them for the rest of their lives.

She smiled and talked often, and aside from replying to the odd question, he was far too tired to do anything but nod along. Still, he tried his best to keep an ear out for important info he’d actually have to absorb. She was welcoming him to the castle, letting him know how things worked, and he was certainly following along well enough, but he was also occupied with looking around. Any nook or cranny was a possible candidate to get a message out.

She led him through the ground floor until they arrived at an office, brightly lit and almost friendly, but Oly felt something sour twist inside of him when his guide bowed and greeted the man inside, “Master Lucice.” Oly followed suit, but now he knew the large, round man behind the desk was their manager. He had heavy bags under his eyes and a sleepy slump to his figure, but until the slave had greeted him he’d been doing some paperwork and sipping tea.

 “Good morning, my dear.” He greeted in turn with a slow, drowsy voice. The manager echoed his chair’s long, low groan as he stood up, and looked Oly over as the slaves straightened.

“Who is this?”

Oly furrowed his brow, but knew better than to talk if he wasn’t being directly addressed. The slave (Hava? Mava?) introduced him instead.

“Hesiat was surprised with the gift of a personal slave on his trip to Kishalon.” She explained.

“Another one?” He muttered.  “Well, no matter if he sets you to the side too. We’ll find a place for you in that case.” He turned around and opened a large cabinet, pulling out a bundle of cloth and passing it over to Oly. “You look like you’ve been in that prettied-up gear a bit too long. There’s a couple pairs of spare clothes, soap, and the sheets for your bed in there.”

Oly tried not to sag with relief at the mere mention of a bed and bath. Some of the body paint had rubbed off into the inside of his clothes before he could hastily scrub it off, and it had taken on a waxy texture that grated the edge of his awareness. His mind warred between anticipation to get actually, properly clean, or to  just lay down in bed and sleep for ten thousand years.

“Thank you, sir.” He bowed his head, then looked at his escort out of the corner of his eye. She smiled and nodded.

“Master Lucice treats us well. If you have any questions or emergencies, you can come to him.”

Oly thinned his lips. “If it’s not out of line to ask, sir, what’s the smallest emergency you’ll tolerate?”

Lucice waved him off. “Don’t worry about that. Anything you can’t do on your own and other people are too busy to help you with. I’m also well-acquainted with dumb questions.”

Oly wondered if that was an invitation to dispel his worries that an answer may be too obvious, or a dig at his question about emergencies, but he didn’t regret it. Knowing himself, he needed clear instruction or he would freeze up and do nothing at all, and risking punishment for a stupid question was better than risking punishment for serious inaction.

“Noted, sir.”

--

Oly was led up several flights of stairs into nondescript passageways, down undecorated halls, and into the staff wing. Even further into the tail of the wing was where the slave quarters lay. She led him into a thin room, which he immediately stepped into and measured the dimensions by taking careful strides from one end to the other: two-and-some paces wide, and five long. There was a bed in the corner keeping the door from fully opening, the bare mattress just big enough for him: thin, and dipped in the middle. A worn nightstand with chipping lacquer sat at the foot, and a small dresser was set next to the bed with its back to the opposite wall. There was a sink faucet and plain ceramic basin under a tiny circular window at the far wall, and an old matted-down rug to catch any stray water. The protective measure was hardly effective if the state of the floors was anything to go by, as the wood was greying and rough around the doorway, trailing into a line down the middle of the room, and subtly warped around the sink.

“How is it?” She asked. Oly sunk onto the foot of the bed, resisting the temptation less and less by the second to just lay down and pass out.

“Better.” He breathed, flashing a ragged smile at her. “Much better.”