Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  He simply wanted his wife.

  Okmar sighed, his attention shifting to the Narada. “Our healer speaks rightly. She is not one of yours, as I am certain your people will confirm upon their return to their own lands. She is his mate and would have you return her to him.”

  The male withdrew his palps, but his arms remained tightly about her. “Then from where did she come, if she was not one of ours? What of her parentage? The offspring of one of our slaves is still ours!”

  Okmar’s expression shuttered. “We did not raise her, nor find her as a babe. There is neither insult nor trespass upon the proposed treaty. She walked many leagues to reach here as Rykkon’s bride. We have no quarrel.”

  A group of three more Narada approached, a cluster of slaves intermingled with them. Rykkon was certain that if Prim raised her head, she would be surprised at their presence, but she was still looking resolutely at the ground, and his arms ached to hold her.

  To protect her.

  To hide her away from all the things of this world that would see her harmed.

  “What happens here?” the largest of the Narada queried, bristling to his full height as he took in the scene before him.

  Rykkon had quite enough. “Release her!”

  To his relative surprise, the creature did so, pushing Prim from him as he strode toward his party to explain Prim’s presence. Rykkon caught her as she stumbled, and was disturbed at how cool she felt to his touch. “Prim? Look at me, please.”

  But she only sank against him, limp and pliant as her shoulders heaved, her breath remained ragged, and all he knew was that he must return her home.

  He should not have brought her here.

  That was much was clear.

  “We are leaving,” Rykkon informed Okmar, already rising to his feet and drawing Prim into his arms. “They may squabble with you all they like, but my duty is to my wife.”

  Okmar sighed deeply. “The others may wish to examine her, to confirm that they know none of her parents. This is important, Rykkon, whether you acknowledge it or not.”

  “My duty is to my mate,” he reiterated, holding her a little closer.

  Okmar’s expression darkened. “And when the wars continue? When more of our people are slaughtered because they accuse us of theft? Could you truly be so callous?”

  Rykkon wanted to growl, to rage. He wanted none to die, but that did not negate the responsibility he had to his wife. And she knew so little of what was happening, and at the moment she did not seem ready to understand. “Prim?” She did not acknowledge him. “Prim, we will go home, I swear to you. But we must linger just a little longer...” he eyed the company of Narada with distaste. “We would not want them coming to our dwelling, would we?”

  She shuddered in his arms, an interesting feat the way she already trembled, but soon he heard her choked voice even as some of her shaking ceased. “No, we wouldn’t.”

  He hoped that this showed signs of improvement, but as he looked down at her, he saw that instead of appearing well, she simply wore that deadened expression he had come to know so well.

  How he hated it.

  He turned a resentful look to Okmar, only to find that he had approached the Narada, his conversation low. Rykkon wondered if he was expected to follow, but could not bring his legs to move—not when it would only hurt his wife to have to be near them again.

  “What was it doing?” she asked, her voice nearly silent, for which he was grateful. He did not know if the Narada knew her tongue, and though he would encourage it within the confines of their own home, he currently did not want them to take offence from any of her words.

  Rykkon hesitated, still uncertain how much to divulge at the current time, when Okmar turned, gesturing for him to come.

  Prim’s grip on him tightened as he acquiesced, no matter how begrudging. “As you can see, he is... devoted to her.”

  Rykkon eyed Okmar with some surprise, though the tone did not suggest approval at his apparent devotion. The elder might be defending Rykkon’s claim this day, but he was not so stupid as to believe it served any purpose beyond the protection of the treaty. With startling awareness, he realised that if the Narada demanded it of him, Okmar would likely also command Rykkon to allow them to take her.

  But that would never happen.

  Not while he drew breath.

  “Her features are unfamiliar,” the tallest of them commented. Rykkon knew none of them by name, had little contact with them throughout the course of his life thus far—rarely had spoken to them directly. Their language was taught to younglings, however, in hopes of finding some advantage in combat.

  Okmar bowed his head ever so slightly. “For she is not of your slaves. Of that you have my solemn oath.”

  Rykkon glanced down at Prim, thinking that she would be staring at the creature that had so frightened her, but her eyes were diverted elsewhere.

  To the slaves huddled behind them, quiet and obedient.

  The human slaves.

  She asked him no questions, did not utter a word or demand an explanation. Only looked at them searchingly even as they studied the ground before them.

  “So this matter is settled?”

  More clicking issued from Naradian throats, before at last the largest gave a bow— a stiff, halted thing given the rigidity of his exoskeleton. “For now. But there is more to discuss.”

  Okmar nodded, gesturing for them all to follow him back to their proper meeting place, giving Rykkon a warning glance as he passed. “Get her home, and perhaps this time you will consider keeping her there.”

  Rykkon would have only bitten out a harsh retort, so he forced himself to remain quiet, choosing his small rebellion in the form of showing his back to an elder without a bow of respect, hurrying to take Prim from this place, and back to where she was safe.

  “My clothes,” he heard her murmur. “I dropped them when it...”

  Rykkon glanced behind him, back to Lanral’s stoop and the bundle that had been dropped there. Rykkon hesitated. “We should return home now.”

  Prim sighed. “Please? Otherwise this whole thing was a waste.”

  He could see her point.

  So instead of disappearing into the cover of the trees as he wished, he diverted to retrieve her fallen items, grateful that Mincel had packed them so neatly or else they would have required laundering.

  He sank down and allowed Prim to scoop up the bundle, holding it close and twining her fingers in its knot as he stood and carried her home, hoping she could possibly forgive him.

  “I am sorry,” he said at last, the silence causing too many thoughts to swirl in his mind, the most frequent that he should return to the village and dispense with the Narada who had put that deadened look back in her eyes.

  Prim nodded, still not looking at him, and he grew more troubled the longer she withheld her words from him.

  When they neared their dwelling, at last she spoke, but not with the words of absolution he would have liked. “I need to wash.”

  “Of course.” Knowing he would be unwilling to leave her alone again so soon—likely not for a very long time—he made quick work of retrieving soap and a few cloths, one smaller for washing and a larger for drying, before he escorted her to the stream, this time simply walking near her as she insisted upon doing so herself.

  She appeared frail and small as she walked, and he wondered if something in her had broken to be so close to the Narada. Was that a part of their nature? Their slaves were docile enough to suggest simple proximity was sufficient to cause them to be so. Or perhaps they were simply frightened. And he supposed enough terror was sufficient to inspire obedience.

  But he did not like it in his wife. Not at all.

  “You don’t need to stay,” she informed him, taking the soap and cloth from him and carefully depositing her new bundle on the grassy bank.

  “You know that I do.”

  She nodded again, her eyes still carefully diverted, before she began stripping off her c
lothing. He had expected her simply to run the dampened cloth over the flesh the Narada had touched, but evidently she did not find that enough for soon she had stripped down to nothing, uncaring that he watched.

  He wondered if that was something he should be glad about.

  From the expression on her face, he was not certain that it was.

  She entered the stream, and he looked over her form, half for it enticed him so, but also to see if there were any marks added to her previous injuries. The bruises had faded to a sickly yellow, only occasionally punctuated with black, her unbound ribs the darkest of them all.

  He frowned when he saw the redness about her upper arms, evidence of how tightly she had been held. The palps did not seem to have injured her, at least not physically.

  She went in further, submerging herself for longer than he would have liked before she at last surfaced, taking in a lungful of air with a gasp before she went back to the stream bank, reaching for the cloth and scrubbing forcefully. Rykkon watched it all, feeling uncertain. How to help one when he still understood her so little?

  “Your eyes leaked earlier. Do they do so often?”

  Prim did not cease in her ministrations, her shoulders hunched as she paid particular attention to her shoulder—the creature must have touched her there most especially.

  His frown deepened. “Well?”

  The cloth halted. “You do that. Expect me to give answers when you have very little to say about yourself.”

  He expected her to be cross with him—he had proven an undependable mate since she had been accosted their first outing into the village, yet she had not spoken a word of chastisement or accusation regarding that particular failure. Instead, she seemed to find his reticence in speaking unreservedly to cause the greater distress. “I have been attempting to understand you. Surely you cannot fault me for such a venture.”

  Prim turned to him, as angry as he had ever seen her. “They have humans with them. Humans. Why?”

  His head tilted to the side, her reaction only furthering his confusion. “You are angry with me. Is it because I did not protect you adequately? Or do you somehow hold me responsible for how another people treat your kind?”

  Prim’s mouth formed a thin line and she turned her back to him, her attention focusing solely on her skin. And while he found her back an appealing thing, he did not like that she was upset with him. And his silence would solve nothing, not when he had much for which to make amends.

  Rykkon sighed, coming around so he could view her properly, halting her hand with one of his own as he knelt before her. His boots were wet, but he had sealed them well, and he remembered how inadequate her own foot-coverings were and resolved to make her a proper pair with his remaining hides.

  “I apologise. You asked a question of me.”

  Prim still would not look at him, but she released a heavy sigh of her own. “I just want to know about the humans with them. I want to know why that thing grabbed me. Is that so wrong?”

  Rykkon reached out and tucked some of her wet locks behind her eat, touching her cheek gently. “Of course it is not. Forgive your poor mate for not being what you need.”

  She did not deny it, and he refused the sting that threatened him.

  But she did grimace, and her shoulders rose and fell, and he wondered at her thoughts that seemed so heavy on her person. “I was frightened,” she confessed, almost as if the confession was a painful one. “And I... wanted you there. Wanted you to come back and help me. I... I never had that before. Had someone I hoped would come and save me. I always just had to accept that either I’d find a way out of a bad situation or I wouldn’t. And either way... it would end.”

  Something in him ached to hear such words. No one had taught her to fight, to inspire respect in others through her own formidable skill. Instead she had been beaten and frightened until all that remained was her resignation and submission, just as the Naradian slaves had been.

  Until she had picked him to take her away.

  Well. Until she had picked one of his people.

  And he had selected her in turn.

  “Did you think I would leave you with him?”

  She grimaced. “It was a ‘he’ then? I couldn’t tell. They’re actually... people?” He gave a nod, prying the cloth from her hands and rubbing it against the block of soap until it lathered. “It... he looked more like one of the hasart beetles than a person.” She shivered when next he smoothed the cloth against her skin, her flesh pebbling against the coolness of the water—or perhaps from the memory of the creature’s touch. He would need to see she was dry soon, with fresh clothes and something warm in her belly, regardless of the cause of her shaking.

  “They are people,” he affirmed again. “And have a tendency toward cruelty. And one of them frightened you this day, and for that I am very sorry.”

  She wrapped her arms about herself as he continued to bathe her. “What were those things he was touching me with?”

  Rykkon sighed, not wishing for her to dwell on the creature any longer, but knowing she would value his truthfulness. “They do not seem to... to feel as we do. Thus they have their palps to touch and sense for them.”

  Prim’s nose wrinkled, evidently finding the Narada’s physiology distasteful. He could not say that he blamed her—there was little to find appealing.

  They sat in silence for a while longer, the only sounds the rasp of cloth against skin, the rushing of the stream, and the general hum of the forest life, until Prim finally chose to speak. “I didn’t think you’d leave me there,” she murmured softly, answering his previous enquiry, her eyes at last meeting his. They were red-rimmed and full of unknown sorrows, but at least she had ceased studying all else but him—even if the presence of her pain did lance through him in equal turn. “And... I wouldn’t want any mate but you. Even if you do tend to avoid my questions too.”

  Rykkon managed some semblance of a smile. “Then we are quite alike. I hear such is common for properly mated pairs.”

  He dipped the cloth over her shoulder, the water spilling over it in rivulets, and when she shivered once again, he deemed it an end to her bath. What she needed more than physical cleanliness was a feeling of safety, and he hoped their dwelling would supply that.

  That he could supply that.

  Prim accepted the dry cloth, rubbing at her arms and hair as he considered whether or not to open her bundle and select something new for her to wear. He made to ask if she would simply prefer to don her previous clothing, but suddenly she grasped the discarded articles and placed them in the water, scrubbing and swirling with great purpose.

  Apparently she would expunge this day from not only her skin, but her clothing as well.

  He eyed the bundle once more, considering. There would most certainly be something suitable inside that he could select for her, but she had held it so covetously, and it seemed wrong to deny her the pleasure of forming an acquaintance with each article as it emerged. So instead, he shed his outer garments until he reached his inner tunic, removing it quickly and holding it out to Prim so she would be adequately covered for their short return home.

  If she thought his sudden removal of clothing strange, she said nothing, instead donning it with a quiet, “Thank you.”

  “It is not my intention to cause you frustration with my silence,” he said at last as she continued her ministrations on her clothing. She rolled up the sleeves on his tunics clumsily lest they become equally wet, but they slipped frequently and he found himself taking the trous from her so he could tend to them himself.

  Prim sat back on her heels and allowed it, though she frowned as she did so. “Just as it isn’t mine,” she reminded him. “But it still happens.” She watched him work even as he tried to find the words to answer the questions she had posed. It was an unpleasant tale, one that she would not like to hear, and it seemed impossible to find a gentle way in which to approach it.

  But she startled him from his considerations by answering a
question of his own. “My eyes weren’t leaking. Not in a bad way, at least. I take it your people don’t cry when they’re upset?” His confused look must have been answer enough for she continued. “Well, mine do. Our eyes produce excess... moisture, I suppose, and we sob and our faces get blotchy, and I hate it, and it’s embarrassing, and I... I wish you’d never seen any of it.”

  Ah. Not so very strange then, at least not for her. Just as her cheeks turned crimson based on her mood, apparently her eyes overflowed when her emotions did equally so.

  “It is shameful? For it to be witnessed?”

  Prim shrugged, fiddling with the hem of the tunic she wore. “I feel that way.”

  His head tilted to the side, wondering at that, before he pulled out her trous from the water and wrung tightly, knowing that they were as clean as he could make them. Any lingering taint would be in her own mind and nothing more. The tunic was next, and this he gave a bit more attention to, simply for it had come in more contact with the Narada.

  “Because it was me who saw it?”

  Prim sighed beside him. “No, not because it was you.” She caught his dubious look. “Really. It’s because... people have mocked me for it before. Or have hurt me more for doing it. So I’ve found that it’s better to do that in private if I have to do it at all.”

  “I would not mock,” he told her solemnly. “And I would never hurt you so you cried.”

  She smiled at him, a sad sort of smile that held none of the joy from earlier. “I am coming to realise that.”

  And he supposed that was something, if not quite the full-hearted acceptance he craved.

  But once again she had shared with him, and he had yet to do so with her.

  And such could not continue.

  “It is not pleasant to think of them,” Rykkon told her, when they had returned to their dwelling and both held cups of teshon. Prim had claimed the bed, and he did not feel right joining her. Not with what he had to tell her.