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maculategiraffe) wrote2007-07-24 12:14 pm
maculategiraffe) wrote2007-07-24 12:14 pm
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The Slave Breakers, 13/15
Previous chapter
The sun was high overhead when, deep in a forest out of sight of the city of Tenarus, exhausted, hungry and beginning to suspect he was going in circles, Bran first allowed himself to seriously consider the possibility that he wasn’t going to find the place.
For the thousandth time he dragged up the memory, faded and essentially worthless but still somehow comforting, like the scrap of his mother’s old dress that he had carried secretly after her death. He could still picture the girl, skinny and high-cheekboned, older than him (had he been fifteen? or already sixteen?), with large, piercing green eyes that glinted even in the darkness of the sleeping quarters at Oreskovich’s. Cats’ eyes, Bran had thought, and her hair was black and short and sleek like a cat’s fur, and once he had actually heard her hiss at Oreskovich, a wordless spit of contempt that got her knocked dizzy and bleeding to the ground. Not for the first time. An unlucky girl, wild and rebellious, dangerous to know. Bran tried to see himself at the time, younger, softer, still with some semblance of faith that if he behaved himself, things would eventually get better.
Try as he might, Bran couldn’t remember the girl’s name. Oreskovich had usually addressed her with such tender epithets as “bitch” and “cunt,” and Bran couldn’t remember ever having spoken her name himself. He was practically certain it had started with an L. Leila? Lana? Lisa?
She hadn’t bothered much with him in any case, not until that one night when she moved close to him in the dark on the floor where they both slept, put her thin arms around him like a lover, and whispered in his ear.
Bran, can you keep a secret?
He had frozen, and then, half mad with loneliness but still too scared to speak aloud, nodded. She felt the motion of his head. Her breath was hot on his cheek.
There’s a big forest outside the city, her voice rasped against his ear. (Which city? He couldn’t remember. Was he even in the right forest?) There's a house there. People who help you. If you've run away.
Bran hadn't answered, hadn't asked how she knew, hadn't even moved. He was too frightened. They both knew what happened to runaways who were caught.
I know you’re not ready to come with me tonight, she whispered. But it’s there, okay?
She kissed him softly on the cheek, her arms slipped from around him, and she was gone.
And next morning she really was gone, their master in a towering rage, and he'd never seen her again. Had certainly never, in his three idiotic, panic-driven runaway attempts, gotten as far as the forest. If this was even the right forest.
He had known from the beginning, of course, that it wasn’t likely he’d make it. Even if the place really existed, even if he made it as far as the forest, even if it was the right forest. It was a big forest, and it wasn’t as if Bran was trained in wood-craft. He was soft, an indoor slave. The kitchen knife he had stolen had been more of a gesture to some unknown observer– look, I even thought of this– than anything he seriously believed he’d be able to use to defend himself. He’d probably be eaten by any number of wild animals, or poisoned when he got too hungry to resist any likely-looking plants, or die of exposure, before he found the place. Even if there really was a place.
Still, he’d made himself hope, made himself plan as if he’d reach it. He wasn’t suicidal. It took the thought of a real if hazily imagined destination– people who help you– to keep him planning his escape at all. He’d even thought about meeting the girl again. How proud of him she’d be. Little Bran, all grown up. Only took you three years. If she’d made it. If the place was real. If this was the right forest.
He shook his head to dislodge the thoughts that were becoming obsessive and made himself walk on, after cutting a strip of bark from a familiar-looking tree with his knife. As long as he was walking, he might as well be sure he was getting somewhere new.
He cursed when he passed the tree again, and sank down miserably at its root, too tired and frustrated to walk on. Immediately, as if they’d been panting at his heels and his pause to rest had let them catch up, he was flooded with nightmare images of his immediate future– of the oncoming night, the dark, the animals. Worse, of possible pursuit. Or lack thereof.
Holden and Alix would have discovered he was missing by now. He hadn’t let himself think yet of their reaction. Holden would be furious, of course, would rail at Alix while she tried to calm him down. She’d be angry too, but more practical. What would she say they must do? Alert the authorities to his escape? Try to think where he might have gone? (He’d never told anyone what the girl had said. They wouldn’t think of the forest, surely.) Would they go to Dunaev, to Oreskovich, looking in vain for parents, for anyone he might think to run to? Or would they simply write him off as a loss?
Bran had to admit to himself that this last seemed most likely. A fourth escape attempt, when he had come to them with two on his record and made a third within fifteen minutes of his arrival at their home... and this one was a thousand times worse than the others. They’d discover his thefts: the clothes, the shoes, the knife; they’d know this one was premeditated. And Bran had no illusions. After all they’d done for him, after Holden had developed such faith in him, been so sure he was doing well that he’d actually put him on the market, this would not be forgiven.
If they did come after him, then, it would most likely only mean a quick and merciful death, as opposed to the lingering one he was likely to enjoy if they didn’t. Holden might retain enough gentleness towards him, even now, to want to give him that. Not that he knew where Bran was, but if Holden did still care enough to worry, there were plenty of places where a runaway slave could end up praying for death to end it. But the trouble of a pursuit, for someone who would only be discarded anyway... he wasn’t sure he’d be looked for at all. And he was pretty sure that even if he was, he wouldn’t be found. So.
There was, of course, one completely insane but unkillable spark of hope in him that he would be found and given another chance. Any punishment, however savage, would be worth it and more if it meant he’d be taken back into the household, that the process of retraining would begin over again, buying him time, Holden’s time. But, realistically... Bran gave a small sigh. If Holden didn’t have time for a well-behaved kid, he certainly didn’t have time to spend breaking in a near-hopeless reprobate.
But he had gone over all this already, quite sensibly, before he made up his mind to run. It was only the pictures that were more vivid now, harder to resist as he grew hungrier and more discouraged. He hauled himself wearily to his feet, determined to keep moving at least until dark.
He stopped again, though it was still only late afternoon, when he came to an oak whose roots supported an overhang above a hollow just large enough for a boy to creep into. Too tired to keep his promise, even to himself, Bran crept gratefully in, lay still, and, despite everything, fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.
"Wake up, boy," said a woman sharply, shaking his shoulder. Bran opened his eyes, tried to figure out where he was, remembered, and gasped, staring up at the woman with considerable trepidation. She was thin and muscular, with graying mousy hair cut in a short practical bob, a rough homespun smock belted with rope, and a businesslike manner.
"It's okay," she said. "I'm here to help. You're a runaway, right?"
Bran blinked at her, petrified.
"It's okay," she said again. "I can take you somewhere safe. My name's Tara. My brother and I live nearby. Come on. Are you okay? Can you walk?"
Bran struggled to his feet, brushing off leaves and dirt. The sun was low in the west. Tara looked him up and down carefully.
"Are you hurt?" she asked briskly.
"No," said Bran, his wits slowly returning. “Are you– are you the people in the forest who– who help you if you’ve run away?”
Tara smiled at him then, a brief pleased grin. “That’s us. Come on, walk with me. It will be dark soon."
She set a brisk pace; Bran hurried after.
"Will your owner have people out looking for you?" she asked, glancing efficiently about as if ready to dispatch possible pursuers with her bare hands. Bran glanced at the hands in question; they were large and square, and looked quite capable of knocking out at least a smallish pursuer unaided.
“I... don’t know," he said, speeding his steps despite his weary muscles.
"Okay. Just walk fast. It's not too far."
"Yes, ma'am," said Bran, impressed with her air of authority.
"Don't call me ma'am," she said sharply. "It's Tara."
Bran walked quickly after her as she picked her way with astonishing speed and ease through the tangle of woods. They walked for some little time as dusk fell around them-- long enough for Bran, still hungry and sore, to take serious if silent exception to her claim that it wasn’t far– but he made himself keep up with the strange woman. He felt oddly numb to his good luck. He should have been euphoric-- he’d been found, Lily or whatever her name was had been right, he was well on his way to a successful escape, after all this time– but he felt nothing but his hunger and fatigue, and a negative sort of relief. At least he wouldn’t be eaten by a bear.
Finally they came in sight of a small house in a clearing, its windows glowing cozily against the dark trees. Tara strode up to the door, produced a key, and unlocked it, turning to Bran.
"Come on," she said, and Bran stepped nervously inside.
The room he entered was large and had an airy feel to it, despite the fact that the only windows were small and high up. A grizzled man sat at a workbench at one side of the room, carving something of wood, which he set down quickly when Bran and Tara entered. He rose and came forward, smiling.
"Found him asleep under the overhang," said Tara.
"Handy little spot, isn’t it?” said the man affably to Bran. “Sit down, lad. You'll be all right now; it's safe here. My name’s Karl. My sister and I take in runaways.”
Bran glanced around involuntarily for signs of other inhabitants in the small cottage. Karl laughed.
“No, lad, we don’t keep them here– not for longer than we have to, anyway. We’ll get you well away. Over the border, where the law can’t follow. We’ve got friends there who can help you get on your feet, start a new life. Here, I’ll take that; you won’t need it.”
He pointed at Bran’s knife, whose handle he was absent-mindedly fingering as he looked around. He pulled it out and handed it to Karl, who laid it aside atop a tall chest of drawers.
“Will your owner be looking for you?" Karl asked, turning back to Bran. “Sit down, sit down. You look exhausted. How long have you been walking?”
"I left home about... one in the morning, sir," said Bran respectfully, and sat down in the chair Karl indicated, looking up at the stranger, who smiled paternally down on him. "And I don’t know if they’ll be looking for me or not. I’m not– worth much."
Karl nodded understandingly. “Sick? Scarred? Do you need medical attention?”
“No, sir. Just, uh, chronically ill-behaved.”
“Were they going to sell you to the retrainers?” Karl asked shrewdly, and Bran flushed, which Karl seemed to take as an affirmative. "But you took the initiative, did you? Bold lad.” He sounded admiring. “Did you know we were here?"
"I'd, uh, heard of you," said Bran. "Kind of. Heard there was a place in this forest." Something was odd about what Karl had just said, but he didn’t have the energy to figure out what. “Someone told me.”
"Good," said Karl, beaming. "Good to know word still gets around. Remember who told you?”
“I can’t remember her name,” he said sheepishly. “It was two or three years ago– a girl with big green eyes, very very green, sort of cat eyes, and short black hair.”
“Lena,” said Tara, her face suddenly softer. “You knew her?”
“Not very well,” said Bran, “but we belonged to the same person for a while, before she ran away. She was coming here.”
“She stayed here a while,” said Tara, rather wistfully, “but she moved on in the end.”
“I’m glad she made it,” said Bran, closing his eyes briefly, then opening them again hastily; the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep now.
“And I'm glad you found us,” said Karl heartily, “–I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Bran, sir."
Karl blinked at him for a moment, then looked at Tara as if for confirmation of something.
“Bran,” she repeated, sounding puzzled. “That was the boy. Eighteen. Bought from Dunaev. Three-time runaway. But that was-- what-- six weeks ago?”
Karl nodded, his eyes back on Bran. “Should I call them?”
“I guess you’d better,” said Tara.
Bran belatedly lunged to his feet; Karl stepped much too swiftly in front of him, blocking the exit.
"Don't run," he said gently. "You won't get far. It's dark out, and Tara and I know these woods better than you do. It's all right, Bran. It's going to be all right. Sit down."
Bran sank back, less in conscious surrender than because his legs suddenly seemed to be made of jelly. Karl reached for a telephone that sat on a small end table beside Bran's chair and dialed, as Bran realized too late what had been odd about Karl’s mention of “the retrainers.” Someone who knew of Holden and Alix only from the talk of runaway slaves should, of course, have thought and spoken of them as “the slave breakers.” But that’s not what we call ourselves.
"Hi, Alix," Karl said into the phone. "It's Karl. Yeah. Yep, he sure is. No, just– oh, hello, Holden. Missing someone?"
He sent an amused glance up at Tara, who cast her eyes at the ceiling in irritation, and patted Bran absently on the hand. Bran stared at the telephone through a darkening mist of despair.
"No, he's fine,” said Karl into the phone. “Scared out of his wits at the moment, but– no. Yes. Yes. No, not yet. Oh– now, you mean? Sure, okay.”
He held out the receiver to Bran, who stared at it as if it were a hissing snake, then took it and held it to his ear with much the same trepidation.
"Bran?" said Holden’s voice.
Bran could not speak.
“Bran, I need you to answer a question, okay? Say okay.”
“Okay,” Bran whispered obediently.
“Good. I’m about to leave. I can be there in less than an hour if I drive fast. I need you to still be there when I arrive. The question is, do you want me to tell Karl to chain you up? I know you’re probably panicking right now; if you feel like you’re going to do anything stupid, I’d suggest you say yes.”
“Master, I–“
“No small talk, Bran. Trust me, once I get there we’ll have a very full discussion of exactly when and how you completely lost your fucking mind. Do you need to be shackled until then, yes or no?”
“Yes,” said Bran.
“Good boy,” said Holden. “Now give the phone back to Karl.”
Next chapter
The sun was high overhead when, deep in a forest out of sight of the city of Tenarus, exhausted, hungry and beginning to suspect he was going in circles, Bran first allowed himself to seriously consider the possibility that he wasn’t going to find the place.
For the thousandth time he dragged up the memory, faded and essentially worthless but still somehow comforting, like the scrap of his mother’s old dress that he had carried secretly after her death. He could still picture the girl, skinny and high-cheekboned, older than him (had he been fifteen? or already sixteen?), with large, piercing green eyes that glinted even in the darkness of the sleeping quarters at Oreskovich’s. Cats’ eyes, Bran had thought, and her hair was black and short and sleek like a cat’s fur, and once he had actually heard her hiss at Oreskovich, a wordless spit of contempt that got her knocked dizzy and bleeding to the ground. Not for the first time. An unlucky girl, wild and rebellious, dangerous to know. Bran tried to see himself at the time, younger, softer, still with some semblance of faith that if he behaved himself, things would eventually get better.
Try as he might, Bran couldn’t remember the girl’s name. Oreskovich had usually addressed her with such tender epithets as “bitch” and “cunt,” and Bran couldn’t remember ever having spoken her name himself. He was practically certain it had started with an L. Leila? Lana? Lisa?
She hadn’t bothered much with him in any case, not until that one night when she moved close to him in the dark on the floor where they both slept, put her thin arms around him like a lover, and whispered in his ear.
Bran, can you keep a secret?
He had frozen, and then, half mad with loneliness but still too scared to speak aloud, nodded. She felt the motion of his head. Her breath was hot on his cheek.
There’s a big forest outside the city, her voice rasped against his ear. (Which city? He couldn’t remember. Was he even in the right forest?) There's a house there. People who help you. If you've run away.
Bran hadn't answered, hadn't asked how she knew, hadn't even moved. He was too frightened. They both knew what happened to runaways who were caught.
I know you’re not ready to come with me tonight, she whispered. But it’s there, okay?
She kissed him softly on the cheek, her arms slipped from around him, and she was gone.
And next morning she really was gone, their master in a towering rage, and he'd never seen her again. Had certainly never, in his three idiotic, panic-driven runaway attempts, gotten as far as the forest. If this was even the right forest.
He had known from the beginning, of course, that it wasn’t likely he’d make it. Even if the place really existed, even if he made it as far as the forest, even if it was the right forest. It was a big forest, and it wasn’t as if Bran was trained in wood-craft. He was soft, an indoor slave. The kitchen knife he had stolen had been more of a gesture to some unknown observer– look, I even thought of this– than anything he seriously believed he’d be able to use to defend himself. He’d probably be eaten by any number of wild animals, or poisoned when he got too hungry to resist any likely-looking plants, or die of exposure, before he found the place. Even if there really was a place.
Still, he’d made himself hope, made himself plan as if he’d reach it. He wasn’t suicidal. It took the thought of a real if hazily imagined destination– people who help you– to keep him planning his escape at all. He’d even thought about meeting the girl again. How proud of him she’d be. Little Bran, all grown up. Only took you three years. If she’d made it. If the place was real. If this was the right forest.
He shook his head to dislodge the thoughts that were becoming obsessive and made himself walk on, after cutting a strip of bark from a familiar-looking tree with his knife. As long as he was walking, he might as well be sure he was getting somewhere new.
He cursed when he passed the tree again, and sank down miserably at its root, too tired and frustrated to walk on. Immediately, as if they’d been panting at his heels and his pause to rest had let them catch up, he was flooded with nightmare images of his immediate future– of the oncoming night, the dark, the animals. Worse, of possible pursuit. Or lack thereof.
Holden and Alix would have discovered he was missing by now. He hadn’t let himself think yet of their reaction. Holden would be furious, of course, would rail at Alix while she tried to calm him down. She’d be angry too, but more practical. What would she say they must do? Alert the authorities to his escape? Try to think where he might have gone? (He’d never told anyone what the girl had said. They wouldn’t think of the forest, surely.) Would they go to Dunaev, to Oreskovich, looking in vain for parents, for anyone he might think to run to? Or would they simply write him off as a loss?
Bran had to admit to himself that this last seemed most likely. A fourth escape attempt, when he had come to them with two on his record and made a third within fifteen minutes of his arrival at their home... and this one was a thousand times worse than the others. They’d discover his thefts: the clothes, the shoes, the knife; they’d know this one was premeditated. And Bran had no illusions. After all they’d done for him, after Holden had developed such faith in him, been so sure he was doing well that he’d actually put him on the market, this would not be forgiven.
If they did come after him, then, it would most likely only mean a quick and merciful death, as opposed to the lingering one he was likely to enjoy if they didn’t. Holden might retain enough gentleness towards him, even now, to want to give him that. Not that he knew where Bran was, but if Holden did still care enough to worry, there were plenty of places where a runaway slave could end up praying for death to end it. But the trouble of a pursuit, for someone who would only be discarded anyway... he wasn’t sure he’d be looked for at all. And he was pretty sure that even if he was, he wouldn’t be found. So.
There was, of course, one completely insane but unkillable spark of hope in him that he would be found and given another chance. Any punishment, however savage, would be worth it and more if it meant he’d be taken back into the household, that the process of retraining would begin over again, buying him time, Holden’s time. But, realistically... Bran gave a small sigh. If Holden didn’t have time for a well-behaved kid, he certainly didn’t have time to spend breaking in a near-hopeless reprobate.
But he had gone over all this already, quite sensibly, before he made up his mind to run. It was only the pictures that were more vivid now, harder to resist as he grew hungrier and more discouraged. He hauled himself wearily to his feet, determined to keep moving at least until dark.
He stopped again, though it was still only late afternoon, when he came to an oak whose roots supported an overhang above a hollow just large enough for a boy to creep into. Too tired to keep his promise, even to himself, Bran crept gratefully in, lay still, and, despite everything, fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.
"Wake up, boy," said a woman sharply, shaking his shoulder. Bran opened his eyes, tried to figure out where he was, remembered, and gasped, staring up at the woman with considerable trepidation. She was thin and muscular, with graying mousy hair cut in a short practical bob, a rough homespun smock belted with rope, and a businesslike manner.
"It's okay," she said. "I'm here to help. You're a runaway, right?"
Bran blinked at her, petrified.
"It's okay," she said again. "I can take you somewhere safe. My name's Tara. My brother and I live nearby. Come on. Are you okay? Can you walk?"
Bran struggled to his feet, brushing off leaves and dirt. The sun was low in the west. Tara looked him up and down carefully.
"Are you hurt?" she asked briskly.
"No," said Bran, his wits slowly returning. “Are you– are you the people in the forest who– who help you if you’ve run away?”
Tara smiled at him then, a brief pleased grin. “That’s us. Come on, walk with me. It will be dark soon."
She set a brisk pace; Bran hurried after.
"Will your owner have people out looking for you?" she asked, glancing efficiently about as if ready to dispatch possible pursuers with her bare hands. Bran glanced at the hands in question; they were large and square, and looked quite capable of knocking out at least a smallish pursuer unaided.
“I... don’t know," he said, speeding his steps despite his weary muscles.
"Okay. Just walk fast. It's not too far."
"Yes, ma'am," said Bran, impressed with her air of authority.
"Don't call me ma'am," she said sharply. "It's Tara."
Bran walked quickly after her as she picked her way with astonishing speed and ease through the tangle of woods. They walked for some little time as dusk fell around them-- long enough for Bran, still hungry and sore, to take serious if silent exception to her claim that it wasn’t far– but he made himself keep up with the strange woman. He felt oddly numb to his good luck. He should have been euphoric-- he’d been found, Lily or whatever her name was had been right, he was well on his way to a successful escape, after all this time– but he felt nothing but his hunger and fatigue, and a negative sort of relief. At least he wouldn’t be eaten by a bear.
Finally they came in sight of a small house in a clearing, its windows glowing cozily against the dark trees. Tara strode up to the door, produced a key, and unlocked it, turning to Bran.
"Come on," she said, and Bran stepped nervously inside.
The room he entered was large and had an airy feel to it, despite the fact that the only windows were small and high up. A grizzled man sat at a workbench at one side of the room, carving something of wood, which he set down quickly when Bran and Tara entered. He rose and came forward, smiling.
"Found him asleep under the overhang," said Tara.
"Handy little spot, isn’t it?” said the man affably to Bran. “Sit down, lad. You'll be all right now; it's safe here. My name’s Karl. My sister and I take in runaways.”
Bran glanced around involuntarily for signs of other inhabitants in the small cottage. Karl laughed.
“No, lad, we don’t keep them here– not for longer than we have to, anyway. We’ll get you well away. Over the border, where the law can’t follow. We’ve got friends there who can help you get on your feet, start a new life. Here, I’ll take that; you won’t need it.”
He pointed at Bran’s knife, whose handle he was absent-mindedly fingering as he looked around. He pulled it out and handed it to Karl, who laid it aside atop a tall chest of drawers.
“Will your owner be looking for you?" Karl asked, turning back to Bran. “Sit down, sit down. You look exhausted. How long have you been walking?”
"I left home about... one in the morning, sir," said Bran respectfully, and sat down in the chair Karl indicated, looking up at the stranger, who smiled paternally down on him. "And I don’t know if they’ll be looking for me or not. I’m not– worth much."
Karl nodded understandingly. “Sick? Scarred? Do you need medical attention?”
“No, sir. Just, uh, chronically ill-behaved.”
“Were they going to sell you to the retrainers?” Karl asked shrewdly, and Bran flushed, which Karl seemed to take as an affirmative. "But you took the initiative, did you? Bold lad.” He sounded admiring. “Did you know we were here?"
"I'd, uh, heard of you," said Bran. "Kind of. Heard there was a place in this forest." Something was odd about what Karl had just said, but he didn’t have the energy to figure out what. “Someone told me.”
"Good," said Karl, beaming. "Good to know word still gets around. Remember who told you?”
“I can’t remember her name,” he said sheepishly. “It was two or three years ago– a girl with big green eyes, very very green, sort of cat eyes, and short black hair.”
“Lena,” said Tara, her face suddenly softer. “You knew her?”
“Not very well,” said Bran, “but we belonged to the same person for a while, before she ran away. She was coming here.”
“She stayed here a while,” said Tara, rather wistfully, “but she moved on in the end.”
“I’m glad she made it,” said Bran, closing his eyes briefly, then opening them again hastily; the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep now.
“And I'm glad you found us,” said Karl heartily, “–I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Bran, sir."
Karl blinked at him for a moment, then looked at Tara as if for confirmation of something.
“Bran,” she repeated, sounding puzzled. “That was the boy. Eighteen. Bought from Dunaev. Three-time runaway. But that was-- what-- six weeks ago?”
Karl nodded, his eyes back on Bran. “Should I call them?”
“I guess you’d better,” said Tara.
Bran belatedly lunged to his feet; Karl stepped much too swiftly in front of him, blocking the exit.
"Don't run," he said gently. "You won't get far. It's dark out, and Tara and I know these woods better than you do. It's all right, Bran. It's going to be all right. Sit down."
Bran sank back, less in conscious surrender than because his legs suddenly seemed to be made of jelly. Karl reached for a telephone that sat on a small end table beside Bran's chair and dialed, as Bran realized too late what had been odd about Karl’s mention of “the retrainers.” Someone who knew of Holden and Alix only from the talk of runaway slaves should, of course, have thought and spoken of them as “the slave breakers.” But that’s not what we call ourselves.
"Hi, Alix," Karl said into the phone. "It's Karl. Yeah. Yep, he sure is. No, just– oh, hello, Holden. Missing someone?"
He sent an amused glance up at Tara, who cast her eyes at the ceiling in irritation, and patted Bran absently on the hand. Bran stared at the telephone through a darkening mist of despair.
"No, he's fine,” said Karl into the phone. “Scared out of his wits at the moment, but– no. Yes. Yes. No, not yet. Oh– now, you mean? Sure, okay.”
He held out the receiver to Bran, who stared at it as if it were a hissing snake, then took it and held it to his ear with much the same trepidation.
"Bran?" said Holden’s voice.
Bran could not speak.
“Bran, I need you to answer a question, okay? Say okay.”
“Okay,” Bran whispered obediently.
“Good. I’m about to leave. I can be there in less than an hour if I drive fast. I need you to still be there when I arrive. The question is, do you want me to tell Karl to chain you up? I know you’re probably panicking right now; if you feel like you’re going to do anything stupid, I’d suggest you say yes.”
“Master, I–“
“No small talk, Bran. Trust me, once I get there we’ll have a very full discussion of exactly when and how you completely lost your fucking mind. Do you need to be shackled until then, yes or no?”
“Yes,” said Bran.
“Good boy,” said Holden. “Now give the phone back to Karl.”
Next chapter