Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  Her eyes narrowed, assessing him. “It is,” she confirmed. “But it’s also a little bit of who you are. A helper, a healer, and one who cares very much for those he treats. Even for the ones who are rude to him in return.”

  Rykkon sighed. “That is what the elders meant. I am a fool to them for that—if I commanded respect, they would treat us differently.” They had talked much on that subject, though he supposed he did most of it as he grumbled about the elders’ criticisms.

  Prim stepped back to him, patting his arm and taking his hand. “Come along. We’ve made it through every other trip to the village. I’m pretty sure we’ll make it through this one.”

  Rykkon wanted to comment that her attempt at reassurance did little to actually help him, but he thought of Sanren and her youngling, thought of how sick and pale she was when last he had seen her, and knew that it was right to visit her. Lenra had not seemed overly concerned, she had not pleaded with him to come, her eyes bright and hands worried, so he was fairly certain her mamé was recovering well. But it was always prudent to check for himself, and there may be ailments he could alleviate not shared with the young.

  So he followed Prim toward the village, impressed as she knew the way, continuing to work on her Arterian tongue. She had insisted upon it since their return from Mercy, a fresh determination making her quiz him about every object in the house, making him correct every nuance of mistaken pronunciation.

  To her credit, she was improving—more so than his mamé had ever done. There was a lacking richness, a distinct oddness to her words, but they were becoming understandable.

  And he was surprisingly proud of her for it.

  She spoke little of the loss of her people. She would look a little sad at times, perhaps a bit wistful, but when he asked after her wellbeing, she would shake her head and smile, and insist he tell her the word for furs once again.

  Or, if she was particularly cheeky, each of their respective body parts. But, he supposed, that exchange had led to its own pleasures.

  He supposed that this was a sign of her truly embracing this life. Her people were gone, and her place was here, and perhaps she did not wish to always rely upon him for translation. It should trouble him that she found him insufficient, but it did not. Not when it meant that she was growing more attached to her place here with him.

  There were things that he did not yet know, however, and they were beginning to trouble him. The people who took their knowledge had likely—hopefully—left the Wastes, and he did not like to think that Prim should be alone in her memories. He wished she would speak more of her mamé, to share in her experiences until he too could almost remember himself.

  “I should still like to know the name you received at your birth.”

  He had not meant to bring it up again, her firm dismissal of it before a reminder that she was not overly keen on whatever it happened to be.

  Her open scoff and the shake of her head only solidified that further.

  “Why? I have a perfectly good name now.”

  “It is very adequate,” Rykkon relented, but it still niggled at him that she would keep something so personal hidden from him. He would have them be above holding secrets. “But it was not the name your mother gave to you.”

  “True,” Prim agreed, continuing to walk and giving no indication that she intended to tell him her actual name.

  He took hold of her arm, halting her. “Why will you not tell me?”

  “Rykkon,” Prim sighed, her tone relating no anger, though she did not seem pleased by the subject. “I find the name... embarrassing. I never really liked it, even when she used it, and now it just... I wouldn’t want you using it, even if you knew what it was.”

  He wished to press further, his curiosity overriding her evident desire for him to cease speaking of it, when a commotion from the village drew his attention. He glanced at Prim, and she looked at him worriedly, and he grasped the handle of his blade, ready for whatever they might encounter.

  He did not expect a festival.

  A large fire had been constructed in the middle of the street, what seemed to be an impressively sized hashnalt, its hide already crisping upon the spit. A cluster of young was squabbling over who next would be permitted to turn it, but a few older females came and quieted them, restoring order with a firm word.

  Rykkon was startled to see the music-makers nearby, plucking at their instruments and humming as they seemed to debate about what to play.

  “What do you think it’s for?” Prim asked him, looking about the village with a furrowed brow.

  “I am... uncertain.” Their holidays were few, and none came during the cold season. The days were short and needed for work, and it was better that families remained in their own dwellings when the mists took the land at night.

  A group of not yet grown males gave a raucous whoop, evidently having sipped a great deal too much summer ale. “Thought you were going to be pretty useless,” one said, stumbling a bit as they reached Prim and Rykkon. “Only good as a reminder of what a taint our healer is. But apparently not!”

  They laughed, shoving one another, drunk on merrymaking and relief.

  Prim did not cower behind him, her brow furrowing further as she tried to make out what they had said. He wished she would not. “This is to celebrate the treaty?” Rykkon enquired, ignoring the slight, no matter how he wished otherwise.

  “Of course! We are not going to war!”

  Rykkon could well understand their celebratory moods, as with every passing day, they neared the age when they would be called to fight the Narada. And it was only the sacrifice of Prim’s people that saw them free from such an obligation.

  Rykkon felt sick.

  “Those are people you speak of.”

  Rykkon blinked, his mouth not yet having moved to chastise them, the words coming from...

  His wife.

  They were stilted, a little awkward, but the males seemed to understand her well enough for they appeared first startled, then amused.

  “People? They are weak, they do not know to fight. They rely on us for everything. It was our right to give them away, as long as it means peace for the rest of us.”

  Prim’s eyes were blazing. “You are weak, is what you are! You are supposed to be an honourable people, whose males would be glad to fight, to die if that was needed!” She took a deep breath, and Rykkon was torn between awe at her fearsome nature, and worry for the fight he would inevitably encounter by her rash words. Words that he had taught her. He wondered if perhaps that had been a terrible error, but seeing her—strong and proud in her own way, he could not fully regret it. Not really.

  He had assured her that she had a voice here, with him.

  And he had merely supplied her the language to be able to show that to others.

  Five pairs of eyes shifted to Rykkon. “You should quiet your female. We know she poses no threat.”

  And it was true. She did not possess the poison that served as an ever present reminder to males that she was to be respected. But as he watched, considering how best to respond—his desire to defend her weighing carefully with the need for them both to survive—Prim suddenly pulled the gun from beneath her fur.

  Time seemed to slow, his horror a clutching, aching thing that kept his muscles frozen as he stared, the group of males first viewing her with mocking glances before realisation seemed to settle upon them.

  Flameless fire.

  Pain.

  Destruction.

  People were beginning to notice the exchange, and some came to encircle them—not intervening, not yet, but curious as to what was interfering with their feasts days.

  Rykkon noted with a sinking awareness that Lorrak and Polark were among them. The first seemed furious, but Polark watched it all quietly, his eyes betraying little.

  Prim did not seem to notice, her focus entirely on the males before her, but as she spoke, he realised that she intended it for her audience as a whole—the people who had wronged
him, wronged his mamé, wronged her.

  And he could do nothing but listen too.

  “You are correct. I do not have...” he had not taught her the word for the glands that produced the poison, but she touched where they would be, and the people understood well enough. “But you are mistaken if you think I am not dangerous. I have the weapon of my kind, and I am not against using it.”

  She fired into the dirt before the males’ feet, and they jumped back in surprise, before outraged glares hastily overtook their frightened shock.

  “What are your terms, healer’s mate?” Lorrak grumbled, his eyes dark and not amused by her display.

  Prim graced him with barely a glance. “They are simple, and much the same as you have always lived under the mating rites.” Her grip on the gun shifted and she took a step nearer to Rykkon, and he recognised she was showing claim. He was hers, and she was his. And no matter how sudden this display might have been, his concern for how it might end, they were one.

  “You will not hurt him. You will not hurt me. And then I will not hurt you.”

  He did not contradict her. Did not betray that he was nervous on how they might take her words, what their reactions might be. Instead he stepped closer, laying a hand upon her shoulder, standing equally with her as she faced down his people.

  And found that he was proud.

  Proud of her use of his language, proud that she did not cower from those who disapproved, did not hide away in their dwelling, trying to remain as small and inconsequential as possible. She was the healer’s mate, and as in times long past, she commanded their respect.

  Just as every female of his kind was capable. Whether or not it was right, whether it was how things should be done, it simply… was. They never need worry over mistreatment, for there was an underlying understanding that they held a strength all their own.

  The power to kill with merely a bite.

  Polark had clearly not been speaking to him in the meeting hall. He was telling him of what Prim would have to do. What his mamé had never managed.

  To speak in the manner of his people, to embrace their ways.

  And from the way Polark was nodding, a pleased look finally appearing in his eyes as he raised his hand to quiet the discontented people—outraged and untrusting of the human who threatened them. “You speak well,” he praised, surprising all who listened. “And your terms are reasonable.”

  There was murmuring in the crowd, some eyes widening in surprise while others narrowed in upset. Yet his hand remained raised, and they did not voice their objections publicly. Not while an elder was speaking. “Our healer is not for sport. We may not approve his choice in mate, nor that of his faeder before him, but threat of that continuing is gone. The people of Mercy have been given in exchange for peace with the Narada, and I say we forget their existence.”

  He looked at Prim expectantly. “You wish to be treated as one of our females, do you not?”

  She wavered for only the barest moment, and he wondered if there was some aspect he had not thought to tell her that would make such an agreement inadvisable. But already she nodded, the low nod of his people, her voice clear and sure. “Yes. And that my mate will suffer no more harm for his trade.”

  Polark made to answer, to give his pronouncement on the matter, but a horn blast drew their attention, Lorrak hushing the gathered people with a growl. The patrols had obviously spotted something, a runner breaking through the trees. “Narada!” he shouted, his breath short from the distance he had run.

  Lorrak stepped forward. “We are in treaty.”

  The runner hesitated. “They do not appear pleased.”

  Lorrak glanced at Prim, his eyes narrowing, and Rykkon suppressed the urge to step before her and intercept such a glance. She was strong, they had seen that, and he would not intervene when unnecessary.

  It did not take long for the Narada to appear, their group not overly large, but obviously a part of a greater band. They had a few humans with them, frightened and some sobbing, their hands bound and looking weary. Rykkon wondered if the elders had told them of the tunnels or if they had been forced to march the entire way through the heat of the Wastes. Their brightly coloured flesh suggested perhaps they had, but he did not know how long it took for a human to begin to burn.

  But why had they not left?

  “We were promised many!” the apparent leader shouted into the gathering crowd, Lorrak moving forward to discuss with him more directly.

  “Not so,” Lorrak contradicted calmly. “You were promised a location. As you have humans with you, I see you were successful in finding it.”

  The Narada hissed and clicked, pulling at their captives who appeared even more upset at their treatment. Prim stood solemnly at his side, making no move to intervene, but he could well imagine how sickened she was by the sight.

  “Perhaps they were too afraid to leave what was familiar,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Or maybe there wasn’t room.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, offering what comfort he could. “If they are angry at the lack of numbers, it must mean that most escaped. You did well.”

  She nodded, a bit dully, her eyes not straying from those still with the Narada.

  There was another host of clicking, the Narada obviously speaking amongst themselves, before the leader pointed toward Prim. “We will take her as well.”

  Rykkon’s breath caught, his grip on her tightening as he prepared himself to fight, to run. To do anything but allow his wife to be taken by these creatures that so frightened her.

  He could not defeat them all, not alone. And especially not if his people agreed and he had to grapple through them as well.

  Prim stood silently, though he felt her tremble. She had obviously understood what had been demanded.

  Lorrak did not bother to glance at her.

  “No. You will not. The colony for a treaty. That was the arrangement. If you are unsatisfied with the numbers to be found there, that is not our doing.” He eyed the captives dismissively. “And as you are well aware, it is not difficult to create more.”

  His words were callous, his suggestion repugnant, but all Rykkon could focus upon was that he had said no.

  Perhaps it was merely because of Lorrak’s own distaste for the Narada, the notion of allowing them one more concession too much for him.

  Perhaps it was because he had some modicum of compassion for the healer and his chosen mate.

  But perhaps it did not truly matter.

  For he had said no.

  And Polark was coming to stand beside him, as did their warriors, blades drawn and eyes hard.

  “Return to your lands, Narada,” Lorrak ordered, his tone brokering no room for denial. “You have already tarried too long. Or perhaps you mean to break the terms of our treaty?”

  A round of clicks suggested they would like to do precisely that, but this band would not have the backing of their superiors to do anything of the sort, and they clearly knew that well.

  They did not part with words, the commander merely lifting a plated arm and the company turning away, their captives pulled along with them.

  There was nothing that could be done for them. Regardless of their reason for remaining, to attempt their rescue would prompt war, and Rykkon could not bring himself to do so. Perhaps in future things would change, the terms of treaty and the Narada themselves could be made to reason differently, but for now…

  They simply had to watch them go.

  Prim’s eyes did not leak, and she stood solidly beside him, and she breathed deeply as they disappeared into the trees once more, tucking the gun back from whence it had come.

  “That was very dangerous, mate,” he chastised, though his tone did not match his words. He was pleased, admiring the courage that he could acknowledge that he lacked.

  “I know,” she murmured, looking up at him, resting her head against his hand briefly as it continued to hold onto her shoulder—almost as if he was afraid to let her go. “I am so
rry I did not tell you. I hadn’t… I hadn’t actually planned to do it. I just wanted a way to help keep you safe.”

  Polark and Lorrak were speaking lowly together, and Rykkon wondered as to the subject for Lorrak did not appear wholly pleased. But eventually they broke apart, Polark smiling to the people around him. “Back to your tasks! We still have a treaty to celebrate!”

  The easy cheer that had been upon the village had faded somewhat, but Rykkon thought that with generous helpings of summer ale, good food soon to be in their stomachs, they could find the will for merrymaking once again.

  The elders did not approach them again, did not make a formal pronouncement on Prim’s actions. The younger males that had prompted her response disappeared into the crowd, and soon both of them were left in the middle of the road, forgotten by all.

  But, he supposed, that was not such a bad thing.

  He did not know what this meant for them in the future.

  If perhaps he could invite his parents to return.

  If perhaps he would be welcomed into the homes of those who needed him, their appreciation kind and generous rather than begrudging.

  Perhaps he and Prim could know what it was to have a friend.

  But for the first time, he felt some measure of hope that such things could at least be possible, and he supposed that was all anyone was truly afforded in a life full of such uncertainties.

  “I think... I think I should like to build another dwelling,” Rykkon told her as they continued their way to Sanren’s home. They had been given a charge, after all, and he would see to both her and the new youngling as he had promised.

  “Oh?” Prim asked, her hand tucked in his. “What’s wrong with the one we have?”

  “Not for us,” he clarified. “For... for my parents. In case...” he could not bring himself to say it, to voice the fragile hope that perhaps they could someday return, but from the way she squeezed his hand, she well understood.

  “I think that sounds nice,” she affirmed. “Though I did not know you knew much about building.”