Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  He did not know how the colonists came about their coverings, nor was he certain he wished to ask. There was the potential for untruths if Prim maintained that they came from a place far beyond the skies, and it seemed better to avoid such subjects altogether. They were to find unity, somehow, and that would only foster discord when he had to question and doubt her word.

  “Are you nervous?” she asked, rather unexpectedly. She typically did not inquire of his emotional state, and it seemed an odd thing now. But perhaps something in his manner alarmed her and she felt it necessary. He strove for calm.

  “No,” he assured her, hoping that he had not himself spoken an untruth. “But some of my visits have been... troubling, and it is right to be cautious.”

  Prim frowned, looking down at her patched and threadbare clothing, and the makeshift coverings on her feet. He saw what she was about to do, to assure him that it was not necessary and she could manage as she had always done.

  But he wanted better for her. And rarely had a visit to the village resulted in lasting physical harm—nothing he could not patch up once home again, at least.

  “We will get your new things. I shall be cautious for the both of us.”

  She offered him a wary smile, and followed as he diverted their path away from the deeper forests and back toward the populous.

  The village was much as it ever was. Perhaps there were a few more suspicious glances than he was used to, but none appeared openly hostile. Prim remained close to his side, though not quite touching. He almost wished she would hold his belt as she had done through the tunnels, but he did not know how to ask such a thing, and did not want to see her look at him so dubiously when there seemed little sense in the request. But he liked her near, liked her within easy distance for defence, and probably most especially, liked that she genuinely seemed to come to him for protection.

  He did not openly look at any of them, always having found it more effective to ignore his people until they made such an action impossible—usually with a fist or two demanding retribution. He knew the way, as his father had drilled him on dwellers of each of the houses. He could be called upon to enter any and offer aid, and knowing where to go was a necessity.

  Yet this time he begrudged Kondarr’s marriage to Mincel, as it meant that she had moved from the outskirts to the centre of the village—and he resented the additional eyes that followed them as they walked.

  Two of her young were in the front, amusing themselves with what appeared to be crudely fashioned blades, more sticks than anything. Rykkon noted the blunt ends, and that the female seemed to be besting the male, her smile triumphant when she tripped him and he lay splayed into the dirt.

  “Dishonour!” he protested, scrambling to his feet and diving upon her, pushing her to the ground as well and holding her there.

  Rykkon watched it all, waiting for any serious injury other than the squabbles of young.

  Prim however was staring with growing concern, and he laid a hand upon her shoulder. “They are merely learning,” he told her quietly. “Our young are not permitted to draw blood. They know this.”

  Mincel appeared at the doorway, watching to see that her young behaved properly, only to startle as she noted Prim and Rykkon standing a small ways down the path.

  She hurried out, nudging her male young off of his sister and urging them into the house. Both obeyed, but not before giving the newcomers long glances, more curious than anything. Their eyes widened as they noticed Prim, the female whispering to her brother words that Rykkon could not understand.

  Their distrust was bred early.

  “Healer,” she acknowledged, bowing her head. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “Payment,” Rykkon told her. “My wife requires clothing. If you have any to share, such would be welcome, otherwise I shall accept information on who would be willing to trade.”

  Mincel frowned, and Kondarr appeared behind her, and Rykkon fought down the insult when the male positioned himself in front of her. Kondarr would likely do so if he had caught her speaking to any male, and it did not necessarily indicate any particular perceived threat on his part. “Payment, you say?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “As is custom.”

  Kondarr grunted, turning to his wife. “Which would you prefer?” Rykkon wondered if she would find it an insult to see her clothing on another—on a former colonist. If she did, she would likely recommend someone else, but he was wary of asking another. They owed him nothing, any service he had given already settled. But he would do it, for Prim.

  “They are not very new,” she warned Rykkon, “but sturdy enough. I received more as a part of my bride-gift, and am not overly needful.”

  This she seemed to say to her husband, almost as if assuring him that what Rykkon asked was not a burden. Rykkon was grateful. He was permitted to ask for what he chose, but he had learned early that he would deny no one from lack of goods. He mostly received symbolic restitution, he having asked more than once merely for a warm greeting when he passed. To their credit, most obliged, though not when any of the other villagers seemed able to notice.

  His people were a stubborn lot, and they were determined to never allow him to forget his differences.

  And it would certainly never be within their minds to offer his new wife a bride-gift of her own—necessities for a mate making her way in a strange home. Linens and delicacies and even simple clothing, all collected from each member of the village to offer blessings upon her.

  But there would be no such things for his bride, and the responsibility fell upon him alone to care for her. And though he was saddened that a tradition that furthered the bonds of his people should be so pointedly withheld, he did not mind the burden. Not at all. Not when it allowed him to show Prim every kindness he could bestow.

  “Anything will be most appreciated,” Rykkon told Mincel, meaning every word.

  Kondarr did not appear pleased. “You will not take advantage,” he cautioned when Mincel had disappeared back into the dwelling, to search out articles she would be willing to part with. “You will not take too much.”

  Rykkon frowned. “Of course not. It was never my intention to do so.”

  Kondarr grunted, but did not provide any further threat. Not as he eased slightly backward so he could watch his wife through the open door of their dwelling, evidently keeping watch over what she chose to collect.

  Preoccupied with the other mates, Rykkon was startled when Prim placed her hand upon his arm. “What’s going on?”

  He opened his mouth to answer when Mincel appeared, a bundle in her arms. Kondarr reached out, his hands intent on looking through the articles more closely, but his wife batted him away with her good hand, punctuated with a glare. “They are mine to give, and my debt to repay.”

  Kondarr frowned but allowed her to pass, and Rykkon vaguely wondered what Prim saw in their interaction. He glanced at her, only to note that she watched them both with a furrowed brow, her hold on his arm growing firmer at Mincel’s approach. Did she fear the female as well? An odd thought. Their females were formidable, though more diminutive in size—though still she stood well over Prim.

  “I cannot promise anything in regards to fit,” she apologised, handing him the neatly tied bundle. “But you have skill with a needle, I am sure.”

  He bowed his head lowly. “My thanks.”

  Mincel hesitated. “Lanral has taken an apprentice, so she should have a greater abundance of cloth, if you would like to make something new. She... may be willing to trade if there is anything else you require.” She glanced at Prim, eyeing her worn and mismatched clothing sceptically. “I tried to give something of everything, but I do not know her kind and if they have special...needs.”

  Rykkon tucked the bundle more securely under his arm and gave another bow of his head. “You are more than generous, and I receive your payment most humbly. Has your wrist given you any more trouble?”

  She retreated a few paces before answering, glancing
back at Kondarr as she did so. “No. At least, nothing that a little of your herbs cannot alleviate.”

  Rykkon nodded. “Good. Then we shall not trespass any longer.”

  He looked briefly toward Kondarr in acknowledgement before they turned, Prim still holding his arm as she followed him away. “There’s clothes in there?”

  Rykkon gave her the bundle. “Yes,” he confirmed. “Though I am not entirely certain of what sort. Mincel was not overly specific.”

  Prim started to peek beneath the folds, and Rykkon found himself watching her, fascinated by the small quirk of her lips as she seemed to spot a colour she liked, her fingers pressing inwards to ascertain the texture.

  “Soft enough, do you think?”

  Prim smiled, a real, genuine thing that made something in him ache in return—perhaps because he did not see it more often. “Yes, thank you. And I’ll work on being able to thank her on my own next time, too.”

  He was not capable of telling her that there should be no next time, presuming she had no medical necessity that would once again bring her to his door. Prim seemed pleased at the thought of improving in his language and being able to converse with the villagers, and he would allow her this happy fantasy for a time.

  It would become clear all too soon that her friendliness would be unrewarded.

  “We have another stop,” he informed her when she started looking toward the forests beyond. “If you are agreeable?”

  Prim nodded, tucking her bundle closer against her. She appeared thoughtful as she watched a few of the females as they passed, whispering and glaring as they did so. He expected her to ask why they distrusted her, why they did not stop and enquire as to her happiness in their marriage. But Prim so rarely did what he expected.

  “Your women have no hair.”

  Rykkon blinked. “Yes?” An obvious thing, to be certain. “A few of your males do not as well, if I recall rightly.”

  Prim grimaced. “That is because it all fell out, and they weren’t too pleased about it.”

  Rykkon glanced at her, his fingers wanting to reach out and touch hers, to remind himself of how it felt, but now was not the time. They could converse, but he must remain vigilant—there would be time for touching later.

  “Will yours do so?” He tried to imagine her without her hair—the strands, sometimes golden, sometimes brown, suddenly absent. He could not.

  Prim peered up at him, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Do you want it to?”

  Did he? It would make her appear more like the females he was used to—like a proper Arterian wife. But it would not aid her in her ability to disguise herself when necessary, and if he admitted it to himself, he liked the strangeness of her. The newness. Something so entirely different from himself.

  “No,” he assured her. “I quite like your mane, I think.”

  He was graced with the second smile from her that day. “Good. Because it wouldn’t fall out, not unless something dreadful happened, and I don’t relish the thought of shaving it all off just because you didn’t like it.”

  It was one of the first times she had made a definitive statement as to preference, nor did she qualify it with an assurance that she would simply if he had asked it of her.

  It pleased him, her speaking her truths and acknowledging that he would accept them.

  “If I had intended to marry one of my people, I would have done so,” not that such had ever truly been an option. “I do not expect you to become one yourself.”

  She nodded at that, fiddling with the edge of the bundle. “I’m glad. Because I don’t want you to be like my people either.” He wondered if she would, if his appearance could change yet his kindness remain. But it was a pointless speculation, yet there was nothing he could do about the strangeness she must see in him. His skin would always shift its colours, his eyes would always have their second lid. They would simply have to accept one another, strangeness and all.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “Mincel suggested the cloth-maker for anything else that we require.” He had gone to her periodically throughout the years, but found her unpleasant and much preferred making do with hides instead of her sneering disdain. But Prim should not have to do so, so he made his way to her hut, hoping that perhaps the apprentice was old enough to handle the trade alone.

  She was not.

  So Lanral opened the door with her usual grimace, her expression turning hostile the moment she spied Prim also on the stoop. “No. I will not have that thing in my house.”

  Rykkon closed his eyes and fought for calm. And Prim wondered why he questioned her learning his tongue?

  “My wife is not a thing, cloth-maker. But if you would prefer to trade merely with me, we may do so.” It was not his preference—his desire to avenge Prim strong within him. But he knew well that to draw the blood of all who questioned her within the village would mean to have many a wound to tend afterward, and they would like her no better for it.

  “She will not enter here,” she reiterated, continuing to eye Prim with distaste.

  Rykkon sighed. “Then she may wait here, and you may speak with me. Is that acceptable?”

  Lanral gave a grunt, moving aside so he could enter. He hesitated before doing so. “She... remain here, please, and I will return shortly.” Prim’s eyes widened, and she looked ready to protest, but she seemed to think better of it for she nodded and returned her attention to her bundle, while he disappeared indoors.

  He would have asked to keep the door slightly ajar, but Lanral appeared to derive great pleasure at shutting it firmly, a look of satisfaction on her face at having narrowly avoided the thing entering her dwelling.

  Rykkon hoped this would be over quickly.

  “What do you need?” she asked brusquely, and Rykkon noted for the first time the girl—barely older than a youngling—in the corner, taking in the exchange with wide eyes. Lanral turned to the girl, pointing a long finger in her direction. “We do not serve humans, understand? They are not our kind and will not have our wares.” Her eyes shifted toward him. She was not stupid, she knew he would be making the trade for her sake, but it must soothe her conscience to choose to believe otherwise. “Well?”

  “A length of cloth,” he asked, gesturing with his hands to estimate the width. “If you have it.”

  She gave another grunt. “And what will you give me?”

  Rykkon gave her an assessing look. “Your joints seem to trouble you, no? Perhaps that is why you have summoned an apprentice—the looms are getting more difficult to work. I have medicines to help with the stiffness.”

  Lanral appeared more prepared to demand he leave her home than accept his offer, but she glanced back at the apprentice, her shoulders stiff. “Very well, healer. You will bring these things to me, and I will give you cloth.”

  It was an insult, to be certain. There was no reason that she could not allow him to leave with the cloth today and return with the medicine when he found it appropriate, yet he expected nothing else from her—and her pains must be great for her to agree to such a low price. In the past she had demanded food and coals for sometimes half a season, but he had no knowledge of looms and so he paid it, however begrudgingly.

  If she had come to his dwelling and asked for aid with her joints, he would have given it all the same, so he supposed all was relatively satisfactory. Even if something in him still strung, not the least of which was that his wife was still stationed beyond the securely fastened door.

  A thump drew his attention to it and he frowned, any lingering argument as to taking the cloth this day leaving his lips. “Agreed, cloth-maker. I shall return.”

  He should have lowered his head, and awaited her to do the same before they touched fingers in show of their deal. But instead he found himself at the door within two strides, yanking it open, his eyes already searching for his wife.

  Only to find her not where he had left her.

  But to see her a few paces away in the clutches of a
Narada, his palps already creeping along any of her exposed flesh, his larger arms holding her body close as he did so.

  And Prim’s wide, terrified eyes met his.

  9. Narada

  Rykkon took a steadying breath to cool his blood and force himself to react rationally.

  Even as a voice in his mind urged him to act, to take up his blade and not halt his arm until Prim was free and the creature dead.

  But Prim was too entwined, and to react thusly would simply terrify her more.

  He stepped forward, his fingers itching at his blade hilt, hoping that he remembered more of the Naradian tongue than currently came to his mind.

  The wars between their peoples had been long, terrible things, and he would not be responsible for their continuance—not when the prospect of a treaty was finally being considered between them.

  The Naradian male watched him with black, beady eyes atop his plated skull, his body hard and grotesque as it caged Prim’s own soft frame.

  “You are touching my mate,” Rykkon informed him firmly, his words a mixture between his own and Naradian. The answering clicks suggested the male was thinking, processing his words carefully before responding.

  “Could be ours,” he replied, his palps still searching, still considering the scent and feel of Prim’s flesh. Her eyes began to leak again before she seemed to fall limp, and Rykkon’s concern for her grew all the more.

  “She is not one of yours. She is mine. And you will release her!”

  “Rykkon, healer, stand aside.”

  Rykkon closed his eyes at the order, Okmar’s sudden presence a comfort and a nuisance. “You will inform him to release my wife and then I shall happily return to my own dwelling.”

  Okmar’s hand upon Rykkon’s shoulder was a tight, unyielding thing. “This is an understandable error. Her kind had not been seen here since...” Rykkon growled. “It would be reasonable for them to question her presence and that we may be harbouring one of their slaves.”

  Prim sniffled, her head bowed, her eyes still leaking even as she could make no move to stop it. Not with the Narada’s hold on her. “She is my wife. And she is frightened. I will make no move against him, but have him release her.” It was within his right as her husband to do so, which he was certain was what Okmar feared. But he cared little for vengeance.