Except that would consign many of them to premature deaths that he could have prevented.
He wanted to bury his face in her hair, to hide away from the world, from the people who needed him yet also refused him the benefit of their goodwill and friendship.
He felt her fingers on his cheek, soft and gentle. “I will follow you wherever you choose to go. But I also want you to know that I’ll be brave if I have to. I’ll stay here and be happy even if that entire village hates me until the day I die. My life with you will have been far better than I could have dreamed, even if they come right now and tell me they’re giving me over to those... things.”
Rykkon held her closer. “They will not be permitted to do so,” he promised, meaning it. If they even suggested it, he believed himself absolved of responsibility for them. They had made their choice, and would have to live with the consequences.
There had been a time before the knowledge of healers was passed down throughout the generations.
It could be learned anew.
Prim smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “I appreciate that you want to put me first. But I’m not blind to how needed you are here, whether they choose to acknowledge that or not. And I would hate for you to be hasty and end up regretting it later.”
He placed his hand upon her neck, well aware of how fragile she truly was, how much care she required. “I would more regret my inaction should you come to harm.”
“I don’t know the right answer,” she admitted, pressing another kiss to his lips. “I don’t know how to think things through, or how to plan for the good of everyone. I just... acted for the good of myself.” She sounded a little guilty at that, and he wondered if her thoughts strayed to how her people continued on in their meagre existence, while she had begun a life with him.
He leaned forward and kissed her temple, hoping to assuage any lingering prick of conscience that might plague her.
“I am not an elder. I was not trained to be one, and I do not have their wisdom, yet my decisions impact my people just as deeply as any of theirs.” He sighed deeply. “I wish I could speak to my father.”
Prim frowned softly. “I am sorry. I do not know how to help, and I wish I did. I don’t like to see you so worried.”
He squeezed her waist, settled as she was against him, glad to have her near. They may not be the wisest two—their impulsivity in their mating making that rather plain—but he was glad that he could speak with her all the same, even if they reached no easy conclusion.
His own conscience was troubled by a truth left unspoken, but the pain of it was still acute, and he hesitated to voice it. Not when their course was so unclear.
“So what do you want to do? Should I start packing?”
He wanted to tell her yes—to take the simplest road. They would face their own challenges, to be certain. He was not the cleverest at building, but he could keep them sheltered and fed through his forages.
But he wondered how the elders would react should they come and find him gone. His knowledge was valuable, and should they choose to pursue—lest their commodity pass to another, to a people more kind, more welcoming to the newcomers—he dreaded to think of how they might convince him to remain within the village.
What threat would be held against his wife.
And, he thought with a grimace, he knew little of other physiologies, so he had equally little to trade with another people, so he truly would be banishing Prim and himself to a lifetime of solitude.
He wondered if perhaps that should trouble him more than it did.
“We shall stay, for now,” he resolved at last. “Until I may learn of their decision.”
Prim nodded. “All right, then.”
He looked at her hesitantly. “Do you agree?”
She shrugged. “I like it here. I like your house, and most especially your bed.” This she said while running her hand over one of the many furs, and he was reminded of the importance of making her a covering so she would not longer have to be cold other times as well.
Though, if he was truthful, he did not mind the thought of her seeking shelter in his bed with greater frequency.
“But when you say it’s time—if it’s ever time—I won’t argue. We can leave that very moment and I won’t complain.”
And he knew she wouldn’t. She was careful with her thoughts, and even more so with her words. But he did not want merely her obedience. He wished to know that he was leading them in a manner she agreed with, that she thought that he chose rightly should the time come when he left his people altogether.
“I am... pleased that you would follow,” he told her, meaning it. He would not go somewhere she would not. “But I also wish for you to speak if you think I am doing wrong.” It pained him to think of her remaining silent on a matter she held some differing conviction, simply for some misplaced fear of displeasing him. “You have a voice, here with me, one that I value greatly. It is your life as well that is affected by my choices, and I would know... I do not wish to act without your thoughts being well known to me.”
Prim blinked at him, and he did not expect brightness of her smile, or the way she hugged him close. “No one has ever much cared for my opinion before—I’ve been told to shut up more times than I can count. So... thank you for that. Even if I don’t have anything to add, it... it means everything to me to know that you cared to ask me.”
This was all he wanted. Her to happily be in his arms, to show her that she was valued and cherished, even if the world had not allowed her to believe so before.
The knot formed in his belly once more, the knowledge that he was withholding a truth from her, and he knew that until he had spoken it, it would remain with him—a bond of guilt, of a secret that she had every right to know.
For it would help her to understand his duty to his people, the reason he served them so faithfully despite their every effort to try all of his patience.
But as he opened his mouth to speak, he stilled, a rustling from beyond the door catching his attention. He stiffened, listening, and Prim noticed for she eyed him quizzically. “What is it?”
Small feet clamoured up the path, before a fist met the doorframe.
Prim startled at the sound, and Rykkon sighed, placing a kiss upon her brow before rising from the bed.
“Rykkon?”
“Please, healer! It is my mamé!” the high voice called.
His wife did not know the words, but even she could interpret the youngling’s tone—pleading and nervous as she called for aid.
He would like to pretend that his will was his own. That he could ignore a call for something more enticing—was still nestled within his bed.
But Prim had already declared that he was a terrible liar.
“I am coming, young one, and you may tell me what is wrong.”
17. Birth
The youngling’s wide eyes were enough to assure Rykkon that there was no nefarious plot awaiting them outside as he opened the door and ushered her in. She hesitated, her body trembling as she considered, eventually deciding it was best to remain outdoors. “Please, my mamé!”
Rykkon had waited just long enough for both Prim and himself to dress before answering her cries for aid, and this time he gestured her inside a bit more firmly. He would need more information before he could offer any assistance at all, and the first of the suns was setting and the day was growing colder.
He did not recognise the little female, though he could be fairly confident that he had been present at her birth. She was a small thing, as unthreatening as could be, though if her parents were wise, she could already wield a blade with some accuracy.
She obeyed as he ushered her inside, her eyes flitting over the interior with anxious curiosity, before she finally addressed him again. “Mamé’s young is coming and the pains are too long and Faeder is away with the others and...” Her hands shook and she worried at her tunic, and Rykkon turned to his workbench, filling his belt with any supplies he might need for a bi
rth.
“What’s wrong?” Prim asked, standing near the bed.
“Her mother is giving birth and her father is away. She is frightened.”
“Oh. Should I...” she made an awkward gesture toward their guest, looking a little frightened herself, and Rykkon suppressed an incredulous smile.
“It is doubtful she would receive comfort from either of us.” He settled a few more things into his pouch, a poultice to help with bleeding, a stimulant for the youngling’s lungs.
Rykkon turned, only to find Prim had gone to their trunk and was putting on her shoes. He hated that she would have to attend with him. He longed to have enough assurance in his people that he could tell her to stay, to reset. It would likely be another long night, and she had already suffered through one the night before, and it was not fair in the least that she should have to do so again.
But there was also a part of him that was grateful that she moved to do so without his prompting, without him having to make the choice between her safety and her comfort.
The youngling watched Prim nervously. “S-she is coming too?”
Rykkon frowned at her, securing his belt. “Yes.”
She appeared rather beside herself as she tugged harder at her tunic. She had not yet even gone through her first Growth, and it seemed wrong to see a youngling so small be so troubled. “Mamé didn’t even say I could get you...” she whispered, and he thought that if she had been one of Prim’s kind, she would be crying already.
“When your mamé receive her healthy young, she will not remember to be cross with you,” he assured her, hoping it was a truth. He did not know her parentage, or whether she had been to some of the more reasonable parents. “What is your name? Your mamé’s name?”
“Lenra,” she answered, her voice trembling a little. “And my mamé is...” her brow furrowed, the ridges more pronounced as she did so, and she took a step back toward the door. “I just call her mamé! Can we go now? Please?”
Prim appeared so, and Rykkon quickly went to his stores, fetching something for his wife to eat, and handing it to her. Finally, he removed one of his warmer coverings from the trunk. It would look rather ridiculous on her, but she would not be cold on the walk.
She looked at him in some surprise, but accepted both readily, and he was glad of it. He did not wish to keep Lenra waiting, but if he was forcing his wife to make another night tending to another, she would at least be somewhat comfortable.
Lenra started to run as soon as he permitted them to vacate the home, but he called her back. “I do not know the way, young one. You will have to lead us.”
She slowed then, casting anxious glances back at them, as if she could will them to move more speedily through force of will alone. Noting her distress, Rykkon kept a hasty pace, and eventually Lenra had to give a hopping little run every few paces to keep up. Prim managed more easily, but she leaned heavily on his arm, unused to the terrain and the darkening skies making her nervous.
He recognised the dwelling as they came to it, and it was confirmed that he had attended Lenra’s birth. The little female burst through the door not bothering to see if her guests would follow, her small voice carrying through. “Mamé!”
Rykkon hurried after, preparing himself for the onslaught of a mother who did not wish for his presence. Sanren looked poorly, and he could readily see why Lenra had defied any order not to fetch him.
Rykkon stepped closer to her side, feeling her skin for sign of fever, before tapping her cheek. “Sanren, can you waken? There is work yet to be done.”
She groaned, turning away from his prompting hand. “So tired...” she mumbled.
“Prim,” Rykkon turned to his wife, who hovered near the doorway. Close enough to watch, but far enough to keep away should her presence prove an obstacle.
“Yes?”
“Fetch some water, please. Perhaps Lenra will show you.” He repeated the order to the youngling in her own language, who nodded with wide eyes, casting only a wary glance at Prim before they disappeared behind a partitioned space of the dwelling.
“Sanren,” Rykkon repeated more firmly.
She was not feverish, not yet, and it was possible she was simply exhausted. Lenra had not told him how long she had laboured, but he needed to speak with her, to understand more of her condition.
He fished through his pouch until he found the small vial—a more pungent brew than anything his father had ever shown him—but it served its purpose well as he held it beneath her nose, even as he tried his best not to breathe the fumes as well.
Sanren’s eyes fluttered open, and he quickly took away the potion, not wishing her to retch. She noticed him then, and she looked dismayed to see him near. “Sakmet said not to fetch you. He was adamant.”
Rykkon closed his eyes, struggling for calm. “When you hand him a healthy young, he will not remember to be cross.” The assurance had worked for Lenra, but from the dubious look Sanren continued to give him, he did not appear to do so for her.
“Did Lenra bring you? I told her not to, to just let me rest for a little while.”
“Your daughter cares for you,” Rykkon told her tightly. He was wasting time, but he could not force himself upon this female if she truly wished for him to go. “More than she fears and hates me.”
Sanren looked so tired, and she did not have the strength to argue. “It was not this painful before,” she murmured, rubbing at her distended stomach. “I do not believe I can birth him,” she continued, her lip trembling at the admission.
She was not rejecting him, so Rykkon felt able to reposition her legs, to feel along her belly for a sign as to what was going wrong. “You believe it to be male?”
She released a breathless sort of laugh, humourless as it was dry. “What else would cause this much trouble?”
Rykkon grunted his agreement, thinking of her mate’s stubborn decree that the healer should not be brought when his knowledge might be the only thing to save his wife from a difficult and possibly fatal labour.
He would have words with him, when next they saw one another. There was no room for stupidity if the cost should be a life.
The youngling was low in her belly, and when he reached with his fingers, he could feel the sac. It seemed to be positioned well, but if the young presented backwards, it could explain some of the additional pains.
Prim entered and gave him a strange look, but he was too preoccupied with Sanren’s condition to try to ascertain why she might look at him in such a way. He inspected his fingers noting the small streaks of blood that clung to them, his worry growing.
His wife held a large bowl filled with water that she held out to him, a towel over her arm and a chunk of soaproot in the other. “You think of all things.”
She hummed, still looking at him oddly. “I am learning.”
“You are,” he agreed, washing his hands as they both watched Lenra carefully manoeuvre the room until she stood nearer her mother.
“We have water, Mamé!”
Sanren managed a weary smile. “You are most helpful, little one. Could you bring it closer?” The young female held the cup carefully, bringing it closer before looking quite lost as to how she should clamour onto the cot without spilling it entirely.
Rykkon fought the urge to pick her up, to assist in such a manner when he knew well that aside from a birth, his people did not like him to touch their young. “May I?” he asked, walking closer and holding out his hand for the cup. She nodded solemnly, surrendering it willingly, and Rykkon helped Sanren take shallow sips.
“I thank you,” she said breathlessly, leaning back against the blankets. They were woven things, well done and brilliant in both colour and design, and he eyed them somewhat ruefully. They would not be so pristine by first dawn.
Sanren suddenly groaned, clutching at her stomach as she turned to her side, her face betraying her agony even as she kept her lips tightly closed. He had seen many a female scream if the pains grew too much, and he glanced over at
Lenra. One look at her frightened visage made it quite plain why her mother was trying to suffer the birth in relative silence.
“Lenra,” he said, turning to her, even as he knew he should be selecting herbs to ease Sanren’s pains. But perhaps this would help her all the more, to know that her young would not be so frightened any longer.
“Yes, healer?” she asked timidly, her eyes never leaving her mother.
“When have you last eaten?”
Her face scrunched up, before she shook her head, dismissing the query entirely. “Mamé has not felt well,” she explained, her small shoulders relaxing somewhat as Sanren’s pain passed and she lay panting upon the cot.
“Lenra,” her mother called, her young obeying instantly. “Go to Mincel’s. She will care for you until I am able.”
Lenra’s eyes widened before she shook her head furiously. “I cannot leave you! You need help!”
Sanren raised a trembling hand, her every feature relaying her exhaustion. “You have brought me help, my sweet. And when you come back, there will be a new young one for you to play with.”
Lenra did not appear convinced, nor ready to acquiesce with obedience, but another pain struck her mother, who grit her teeth and looked at her with more authority. “Go!”
Lenra jumped, startled by the command, before she fled from the dwelling.
“Where did she go?” asked Prim as Rykkon began rifling through his things—potion for the pain, an herb to help the pains be more productive, even if they could not manage to lessen their frequency.
“She is too young for this,” Rykkon explained, lifting one vial and then another to Sanren’s lips. She did not ask what he was giving her, and he chose to think that she remembered the care she had received at his hand when Lenra was born, and not that she was simply too fatigued to fight against him.
“Will they help?” Sanren asked, her voice taut with strain.
“Soon,” he assured.
Sanren shook her head. “I do not think I shall last,” she mumbled before crying out once more, bearing down as she did so.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 22