But she required rest, her earlier sleep plagued with night terrors, and he did not trust any of these guards to see her home. Yet, as he watched Lorrak and awaited his answer regarding the status of the creatures who had done this, he wondered if the brute of a male would permit him to escort her.
“Gone. I would have struck down the one who had hurt him, but he refused to allow it. ‘Think of the treaty,’ he said.” Lorrak snorted, shaking his head and looking vengeful. “There can be no treaty when they harm the one who offers it. There can be no peace when they continue to attack our warriors, our gatherers.”
Rykkon knew little of policy, of treaty-making, nor would he pretend to. There was wisdom in forming peace, of course there was. When two peoples could benefit each other through trade and cooperation.
But peace could not be one-sided, and it seemed the Narada had made their choice.
Lorrak stood abruptly, his expression full of the rage he must feel for what had been done to the male who had apprenticed him. “Sakmet!” he commanded, the other male appearing from the room beyond.
“Yes?”
“We are leaving. We will catch the murderer, and the rest may return carrying the head of the one who has done this. We are not weaklings for them to abuse as they will, and come morning they shall know it well.” Sakmet smiled, a vindictive thing, and though Rykkon questioned the wisdom, the impulse at least he could understand.
And he had not trained as an elder. That was not his calling, and he would not intervene.
The only thing he could offer was to aid any who came back with injuries of their own.
Lorrak turned to him, then, his eyes full of fire. “You will watch him. You will not leave this place until I return.”
Rykkon glanced at Prim, but found himself nodding. He would tend her here as best he could, and he could do so all the better without the watchful eyes of a people more than willing to blame her for the harm to their leader.
“Very well.”
Lorrak looked at him in some surprise, apparently having expected disagreement, but he gave a grunt and left the dwelling with Sakmet, their blades already at the ready.
The Narada were slower to move than his kind, and he had little doubt that they would soon come upon them.
He only questioned what would come of their retribution.
“Have they gone?” Prim questioned, her eyes wide and so uncertain. He opened his arms in invitation, and he was gladdened by how quickly she accepted his embrace, burrowing close and hiding in his chest, only shivering slightly as she did so. Furs. He would make her something warm and soft, just as she liked, and perhaps then she would not be so cold. He had not considered it before, but she had been birthed and grown in the Wastes, the heat a constant and tangible a presence as anything. Was there any wonder that she had trouble adjusting to the cooler temperatures that accompanied her new home?
“Yes, they have gone,” he assured her, allowing his hand to drift gently along her back, relishing the feel of her, the knowledge that he had a companion in the long wait to see if one of his charges would live or pass on.
“Good,” she murmured against his chest, burrowing a little closer. And even though he should not—that it was inappropriate to feel even a small measure of joy so near a sickbed...
He smiled.
13. Vigil
Their vigil was not as dreadful as he feared—not, at least, in its relation to his wife. There was a bench along the wall where she could rest, and when he was not caring for Okmar, he would sit with her and she would even doze, her head often coming to nestle against his shoulder.
It was a moment of respite that he had never previously been afforded when previously he had watched over one of his sickly people throughout the night.
And he found it most satisfying.
But the actual care of Okmar was far less agreeable. He was no stranger to the process of dying, the fluids that could accompany those whose death was prolonged, as necessary organs began to fail. Eventually he was forced to give him a sleeping drought, his groans of pain too agonising. Prim helped him to administer it, Lorrak not there to stop her from doing so, and though she was somewhat hesitant, she did not protest.
“It’s fine, really. I told you, I want to be a help.”
Rykkon knew her words to be true, but there was still a part of him that wished to spare her the experience entirely. Perhaps he could banish her to one of the other rooms, to wait there until he came for her with news of whether Okmar died or lived on. But whenever he opened his mouth to do so, something halted him, wholly selfish and likely to be ignored.
He liked her presence there.
He liked that she would disappear for a moment and return with water for them both, insisting that they both should drink. He liked when she would pat the bench next to her, reminding him to rest as well, if only for a little while.
It was an odd thing, to be cared for in the midst of his caring for another, but he found it too endearing to remove her.
She did not again suggest her guess as to Okmar’s fate, and for that he was grateful. He tried not to dwell upon it, but he worried for both their safeties should he pass on. Lorrak was generally a reasonable man, but he could issue a challenge all the same, blinded by grief and vengeance. It was a rare thing, to question the healer, even one as mistrusted as he, but there was precedence for it—and while Rykkon was a skilled fighter, he did not relish the thought of sparing with the much larger male.
He drew some small comfort that the other elders would acknowledge that allowing their healer to be killed would harm their people all the greater. He had lost his charges before, and while it grew no less difficult, he had come to accept his father’s word that such was a part of healing.
Not all could be fixed by potions and a prayer.
Some wounds were simply too deep.
“Are you hungry?” he asked Prim at last, simply needing to distract himself from eventuality of what was to come, and he frowned at her little shrug of answer.
He rose, checking that Okmar was still within the bounds of sleep, before he gestured for her to follow him to the room beyond. She had been there, but he had not, and he found it to be a pleasing one. It was small for a cooking area, but he imagined with a fire in the hearth it would prove warm and fragrant with the scents of the meal soon to follow.
But there was no fire and he did not have the tools to create one, nor the focus to discover them in Okmar’s stores.
So instead he went to the neat line of pots that lined the walls, opening lids at will and studying the contents, trying to assess which one his wife might prefer. The variety was impressive to him, and he realised how much he neglected by focusing his forages mostly upon medicines. But Okmar was not forced to collect all of his own food, trade and general generosity providing him with much, and Rykkon had come to accept this. He may not like it, would certainly have preferred that it be different, but there was little point in dwelling upon it now.
Not when his wife needed to eat and the very man in question lay in the room beyond, suffering.
A basket of pinlin nuts caught his attention, and he took a handful and handed them to Prim. He never had the patience to shuck them from their casings, but his mother had often done so and he knew them to be delicious.
She gave him a wan smile but obliged him, eating a few tentatively before beginning to enjoy them with obvious vigour.
“We won’t get in trouble?”
“The healer is allowed to take what he needs. And he needs to care for his wife.”
She looked down at the pinlins, frowning a moment before she held out her hand. “You need to eat too,” she reminded him.
He wanted to hold her for that, to pull her close and bury his face in the curve of her neck, simply for the care she showed him in turn.
But he simply took another fistful, placing a few in his mouth and savouring the taste before he gently pushed her hand back toward her, urging her to eat.
&n
bsp; She did so, though she continued to watch him for signs that he was merely placating her with his show of eating.
“Does this happen often?”
Rykkon’s hand halted before he could consume another nut. “Which part?”
Prim sighed. “Someone coming to the door and demanding you go with them. A poisoning by one of those... people. Having to watch someone...” She glanced at him quickly before shrugging, and though she did not voice it, he knew well what she meant.
To watch someone die never grew easier.
“Not often, no. Most are able to come to my dwelling directly or they tend to their own ails as best they can. And the elderly...” He shook his head, eating another pinlin. “When it is their time, I can do little. Their offspring rarely call for me, however, preferring a quiet passing.”
Prim nodded, considering his words. “And the... Narada?” She looked at him again for confirmation, the term still strange to her. He bowed his head in affirmation. “Are they gone now?”
Rykkon closed his eyes for a moment, imagining them at the mercy of Lorrak’s blade. “Lorrak is even now seeking vengeance for what they have done to Okmar. He will return when he is finished.”
Prim’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
Rykkon was hesitant to tell her, but it seemed wrong to keep the truth from her, even if she might find it unpleasant. “He is going to kill the one who poisoned him.”
“Oh.” If she was surprised to hear of it, she did not show it. “I would have thought he’d done that already.”
Not surprised then.
He wondered if he was glad to hear she thought so of his people, that they were quick to draw the blade, quick to draw the blood of restitution. Though, if he was truthful, he supposed it was a fair assessment.
“Okmar had asked him not to—to preserve the hope of a treaty between our peoples. Lorrak has a different priority.”
Prim hummed, finishing the last of her pinlins, her eyes darting about the room. “His home is very nice,” she commented, and Rykkon watched her closely for any sign of envy. But it appeared to be a mere observation, though the niggling worry that he was neglecting her in some way—keeping her cramped and too close within the confines of his single-roomed home.
And he supposed it was better to simply ask than to fret.
Only to receive an incredulous glance when he did so. “You’re worried I’ll think your house is too small? Did I not tell you of where I lived?”
Rykkon mimicked one of her shrugs, trying to remember if she had done so.
He must have taken too long, for she continued. “A tent. A tent just over the edge of the oasis. Enough to make you boil when the suns were out, and wish you could bury yourself in sand when they went down just to keep warm. And you wonder if I’m going to start complaining about your house?”
“It is our house,” he amended, though his thoughts were far more focused on imagining the conditions in which she had lived.
Prim looked away from him, and he wondered why. Her cheeks did not pink to suggest she was embarrassed, but still, she would not meet his eye. “Our house, then.”
“Does something trouble you about that? To know that it is your home as well?”
Prim smiled, a half-hearted thing that he wished appeared more sincere. “No. I’m just not used to it, that’s all. I admit, sometimes I feel like I’m trespassing.”
Rykkon frowned. “You are most welcome there. You should know that by now.”
She drew closer to him, and some of his disgruntlement eased when she gently placed her hand upon his arm. “I know that. Honestly. But it’s still new for me. I had never even had a bed before, and now I can’t imagine trying to sleep somewhere without all your blankets to keep me warm.”
A measure of pride swelled within him to hear that something he had provided her was so warmly received. “You should not have to. I am sorry that you are not able to be there now, resting properly.”
Prim shrugged, and he decided to believe she truly did not mind being here with him. “I’d rather be here then back at home by myself. I get nervous when you aren’t around.”
He wished that he could tell her that her worries were unfounded—that none would ever seek to harm her again in this life—but he could not. He would not lie to her, and it would be a falsehood to claim a confidence he could not possibly affirm.
A low groan reminded him of his charge, and with some regret he returned to the sickroom, Okmar’s expression pained as he still lay upon the cot.
“Elder?” he asked, checking for signs of consciousness. He should be sleeping yet, the many medicines a taxation on an already strained system, but still Okmar struggled awake. “Be still,” Rykkon insisted, the foolish male trying to move.
“L-lor,” he began, his words caught between his rasps for breath, but his meaning was clear enough.
Rykkon closed his eyes, considering if now was the time for truth when he realised that Prim had followed him, her eyes ever watchful over him and his charge.
She would have truth from him, even when it proved difficult.
“He has chosen to seek out the Narada,” he confirmed, quick to soothe when Okmar showed his distress. “You have trained him well and he shall do what is right for our people.” Okmar grunted and closed his eyes, his head shaking ever so slightly in protest. His mouth opened to form the words, but Rykkon spoke before he could attempt to do so again. “Now is not the time for speech. You must rest, and you must heal. Lorrak has chosen his path and we shall accept the consequences as they come.”
“Is he...” Prim began, Rykkon’s attention drifting to hers, the better for them to speak to one another. But a hand grasped his arm before she could finish her thought, and he was too startled at Okmar’s sudden show of strength to prompt her to continue.
“Y-you are far better...” a wheeze, the breath long and difficult, “than I was ever willing to admit.”
Rykkon’s eyes widened, disbelieving that he should ever have spoken such words. He knew well how staunchly Okmar had asserted that Rykkon’s presence within their midst would lead only to disaster—that his father’s choice of mate would prompt others of their young to make similar choices. He had done nothing to discourage the suffering of his mother when she was driven from the village time and again, sometimes by harsh words and others by stones or even fists, until at last she chose to remain within the safety of their dwelling.
It was a confession he had not expected, nor one that would have ever passed Okmar’s lips.
Not unless he truly believed that death was near.
And that some part of him believed that he had done wrong to the healer who now sought to save him.
“You were cruel to my mother. You wished to shame my father for mating with her. You called me half-breed and suggested the elders banish me from our people entirely.”
Okmar grimaced. “You speak truly.”
“And you seek my forgiveness now?”
The dying male shook his head. “No. Only,” a cough shuddered through his chest, “I may now recognise that y-you have done what I would not, had our r-roles been reversed.”
Rykkon dreaded the answer even as he posed the question. “And what is that?”
Okmar stared at him, his eyes clearer than they had been for some hours. “You are trying to save me.”
It was a strange thing, to watch Okmar die. Rykkon did not quite know his own feelings, as the breaths drew shorter, until finally the elder’s chest stilled completely, just as the first dawn was beginning to break across the horizon.
Instead, he thought of Prim’s hand in his, the feel of her skin, the texture so different from his own as she told him she was sorry, not that he had failed—for she refused to call it that—but that he should look so remorseful himself.
He should long ago have abandoned all hope that the people who had so derided him for his entire existence should come to think well of him. That perhaps a dying male might acknowledge that the
youngling he thought a scourge upon their people was good and useful.
But even upon his dying breath, he could make no such concessions.
And, Rykkon supposed, he should have expected nothing else.
When Lorrak finally appeared, black blood splattered across his flesh and clothing, his face betrayed no expression, no sense of how he might take the last of his vengeance upon the waiting healer and his mate.
“Did he speak? At the end?” Lorrak asked, his voice low and carefully controlled.
Rykkon suddenly felt weary, of his people and of his duty.
“No,” he replied, the falsehood numb upon his tongue. “Were you successful?”
A malicious glint formed in the larger male’s eyes. “Do you doubt it?”
Rykkon shook his head. “Will you see to the arrangements?” He nodded toward the body. For a widow, distraught at the loss of her mate, he would stay and help as he could. But now...
He wished to be away from here. To enjoy the respite that came with solitude—where he could resurrect the words of his mother so long ago, her steadfast encouragements that he was not what his people said he was.
He was worth saving.
Prim leaned closer, her voice only a whisper. “Are we going home now?”
Lorrak watched them both with obvious disapproval, but finally turned to study the still form of Okmar instead, his flesh already leaching of colour, leaving behind what Rykkon supposed was their true form.
Perhaps that was why death was so unsettling—it was to see a part of them that was ever changing, ever shifting to suit their needs, but all was laid bare when death had its final way.
“I will care for him now,” Lorrak promised. “Though I would not rest easy, healer. I will be speaking with the other elders.”
He should take offence. He should challenge now the injustice of his words, with witnesses to hear of Lorrak’s misplaced grief. But his limbs were sluggish and tired, and he was heart-sore, and he longed for home.
And his bed.
The one he now shared with a strange female who had never experienced one before.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 17