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The centaur was shivering violently where he stood, just outside the stable door.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Esmond tried to keep his voice steady, but he was never good at talking to people. The young centaur was covered in dirt and bruises, blooming violently against his pale skin and dapple gray hide. Good God, were those hoofmarks he saw? He seemed thinner than when Esmond had let him go, only weeks prior. Esmond could not believe such a thing was possible. He had been sure to send the boy away with enough food to last until he found the herd living in the Dark Forest, and detailed directions so he would not get lost. It had been the least Esmond could do after seeing the appalling way he had been treated by Esmond’s older brother.
The centaur shrank back at the question, but didn’t answer.
“Why don’t you come inside, and we can discuss this over some porridge?” Esmond wasn’t usually one to break his fast so early in his old age, but the centaur clearly needed food, and porridge was quick to heat.
The centaur flinched, actually flinched, as though the words were like hot irons against his skin. “I can’t, sir,” he choked out quickly. “I’m not allowed in the house.”
“I imagine that was one of my brother’s rules?” Esmond asked gently. When the boy nodded, he continued, “My rule is that cold, hungry guests sit by the fire and break fast with me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course, sir,” the centaur responded, voice cracking. He shifted slightly where he stood, one hoof pawing the ground. “I’ll dirty the rug.”
“It can be cleaned,” said Esmond, smiling. He gestured for the centaur to follow him back towards the house. The centaur did so silently. So silently, in fact, that Esmond could not help but turn and check that he was, indeed, following. Esmond was relieved when they got to the house and the centaur ducked in behind him.
“You can lie by the hearth,” Esmond said as he headed towards the pantry. He pulled out two pots, trying not to clang anything too loudly. Porridge was easy enough for him to learn to make after his late wife’s passing, and he hummed to himself as he mixed the grain and the water together. The second pot he filled with plain water - the centaur might like the chance to clean himself.
He returned to the hearth and hung both pots on hooks stretching out of the stone wall. He lit the fire with a flick of his wrist – he was never a strong mage, but pyromantic cantrips were well within his repertoire. He then turned to his impromptu guest.
The centaur was standing stiffly, as if afraid to move too much. Esmond decided not to remind him to sit, not to press the issue. He did not miss the way the centaur’s gaze darted over towards the porridge, then quickly away, as if he was afraid to look at food. What had his brother done to the young centaur to make him this afraid? More importantly, why had he come back?
Esmond suddenly realized that he had never bothered to ask the centaur’s name. He had been happy to send the centaur back to his own kind, and the centaur had seemed happy to go. Esmond could infer, from the hoofmark against the boy’s chest, that the Dark Forest’s herd did not accept the boy – by why ever not? If Esmond had stumbled across a human child who had been enslaved by non-humans, he would have helped the child either find their village or start a new life somewhere.
The centaur seemed hesitant, as if waiting for something. If he wanted answers, Esmond would need to begin the conversation.
Rhistel held himself carefully. He did not want to get dirt on anything, but he was afraid that was a battle already lost. Master had said the rug could be cleaned, but he would still punish Rhistel for the inconvenience, and rightfully so.
At least, Rhistel hoped the man would be his Master. He didn’t know what he would do, otherwise. The man had seemed kind, when he came to claim his elder brother’s inheritance. He had freed Rhistel, had sent him to the Clan of the Forest of Blessed Gleaming Waters. Rhistel had been happy to go. He had thought things would be better.
The Clan elders had been swift to teach him what they thought of a centaur so week as to submit to a bit and bridle, so pathetic as to allow a human to ride him, to draw a human’s cart. They taught him, and when they were done, they banished him and warned him to never return to the Forest of Blessed Gleaming Waters.
Rhistel hadn’t known where to go. But his former master’s brother was the only being he could remember to ever show him kindness. Being his slave would be better than how things were before, with his former master. He would be willing to wear a bit, to pull the man’s cart, if it meant he would only be punished when he deserved it. Rhistel would likely deserve punishment often in the first few weeks, but he could learn what this master wanted. He could behave.
He didn’t allow himself to glance at the pail of water, slowly heating. Burns were painful, but his innate magics prevented infection. If his master felt it a fitting punishment for tracking dirt inside, for being inside, he would remember and he would learn.
Master was still standing there, staring, sizing Rhistel up. Rhistel could only hope he would not be found wanting. If Master kicked him out, he truly would have nowhere to go.
“I assume the meeting with the herd of the Dark Forest didn’t go well?”
It took Rhistel a moment to remember that the Dark Forest was the name the humans had given to the Forest of Blessed Gleaming Waters. He shook his head, not trusting his voice to recount the painful kicks to his ribs, his flank, his arm, to remember the careful, tortuous way their healer cut into him again, and again, and again, only fixing him enough to survive to the next round. The way they gagged him – since you like wearing a bit so much, one elder had sneered – during meal times, the delicious smells and the hunger pangs enough to drive him mad.
Rhistel realized his master asked another question and shook himself free of the memories. He couldn’t recall what the question was. Another punishment earned.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t hear you,” he whispered, hoping his contrition might count for something.
“I said, do you have anywhere else to go? Another herd, perhaps?”
If Rhistel was a better, braver centaur, he might have corrected the human, told him that centaurs were not horses or cows, they didn’t have herds, they had Clans. Rhistel was not a good or brave centaur, and he had been banished. No other Clan would recognize his existence.
“I do not, sir.”
The elderly human hummed in acknowledgement but did not say anything. His attention shifted to the porridge, which appeared ready to eat. Rhistel did not dare hope he would get any, no matter what Master had said earlier about breaking fast. Better not to hope and not be disappointed. It smelled heavenly, though. If this man was to be his master, perhaps he could earn warm food as a reward. He just had to be good.
Master filled both bowls with porridge. Master placed a spoon in each bowl. Master handed a bowl to Rhistel, a far cry from the buckets of slop his old master used to feed him in the stable. Master sat down and began to eat.
Rhistel did not eat. He could not. Not until this man agreed to be his Master. The bowl shook in his hands, and talking without permission was punishable, but this was all he could offer.
“I could pull your cart.”
The man he hoped would be his master looked up sharply from where he was sitting. Rhistel could not decipher the look on his face, but he had to continue.
“You could ride me if you want. Your brother had a bit and bridle and blinkers made to fit me, and a harness so my arms aren’t free while you’re riding. I would obey any orders you give me.”
The man was frowning. That was definitely a frown. Oh Fates Above, Rhistel was going to be kicked out before midday. “I don’t need much – your brother only fed me once a day, and I can keep my stable clean. I won’t be a burden.”
That was all he had to offer. He forced himself to stop rambling and hoped it would suffice. The smell of the porridge was enough to make him feel faint, but he couldn't afford that right now.
The man didn’t say anything for several long moments. Rhistel heard the water boiling over the fire, a reminder of punishments to come, but made no move to do anything about it. His fate was in this man’s hands, and he didn’t seem inclined to anything Rhistel could offer.
“What is your name?”
The question was so out of place that it took Rhistel a moment to answer. Perhaps the man was a strong enough mage to work name magic.
“Rhistel, sir.”
“I am Esmond.”
Another pause. Rhistel wanted to run, to move, to paw at the ground, but he did not dare.
“How old are you, Rhistel?”
He had to do the calculations in his head. “I am ten years old, sir, which is about sixteen in human years.”
“I am fifty-three.”
Rhistel didn’t know what to say in response to that. He would beg to know whether the man would keep him if he thought that begging would help.
The man looked at Rhistel’s hands, still shaking as they held the bowl of porridge.
“Well, Rhistel, I do not need you to pull my cart or any of the other things you said. But I will not kick you out either. You can stay here for as long as you like. Please try to eat your porridge before it goes cold.”
Rhistel obeyed. He did not know what good a centaur was as a slave if not to pull carts or be ridden, but his master was keeping him. That was all he needed to hear. It would be better than things were before, he was sure of it.
It was only after his master gave him a second helping of porridge, wiped him down with the warm water from the hearth, showed him to a room inside the house with a bed and a veritable mountain of blankets, moved the large mattress to the floor, and allowed him to lie down comfortably did Rhistel remember that Esmond had freed him already and think maybe I am not to be a slave here at all.