Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  Something larger was outside his door.

  He sat up hastily, and gave Prim an apologetic glance as she looked at him with some bewilderment. “What’s wrong?”

  But before he could answer her, the pounding began, quick raps against the door frame followed, “Healer!” making it evident that he was expected to admit someone entrance.

  Except, he had a wife now, unloved by his people just as he was, and a part of him worried that he was opening the door to death rather than someone in need.

  He rose from the bed, changing quickly into his clothes and strapping a blade to his forearm, covering it quickly with his sleeve before turning back to Prim. She evidently did not think kindly of another of his people entering and seeing her so undressed, so she hastily donned some of her old clothing, Mincel’s offerings yet untouched. He briefly wondered if she was saving them for something special, but another pounding at the door kept him from asking.

  He opened the door, but only just, very aware that there were more males outside than he had anticipated. This was not the announcement then that Sanren’s young was to be born. Something dreadful must have happened.

  Or they were here to kill him and his wife.

  His fingers itched to hold his blade properly, but he forced himself to calm, to hear their words before he made assumptions. “Yes?”

  If Lorrak was surprised that Rykkon did not immediately allow an elder entrance, he did not show it. “You are needed. Now. You will come.”

  Rykkon opened the door slightly more, his eyes making quick assessment of the males stationed outside. They did not look in need of aid, though he supposed they appeared tense. Not as if they were about to mount a massacre of their healer and his mate, but as if they were anxious to return to the village.

  “I will need to know the nature of my charge so I know what is required.”

  “Poison. From a Narada.”

  Rykkon’s eyes widened. “I will fetch what I need,” he told the elder quickly, before shutting the door firmly. He hurried to potions, his salves and balms, his mind racing through what was required. Poison from a Narada... not unheard of, but not typically treated.

  For a blade typically was quick to follow the poisoning, death most definitely assured.

  “Rykkon?” Prim asked quietly, and he glanced at her, her posture most unsure as she watched him rifle through his life’s work, some bottles tipping and rolling in his haste. He placed all the ones he thought he could possibly require into a pouch, before addressing his wife properly. “I must go. There has been an... incident with the Narada,” before he asked if she required clarification, he noted the widening of her eyes. So, she remembered their names. Lorrak pounded once more at the door, a reminder of their urgency. “Do you wish to go or remain here? We must decide quickly.”

  Prim’s eyes flickered to the door and he thought she must be imagining the frightening prospects that lay beyond. Yet still she quickly went to fetch her shoes. “I don’t want to be here by myself,” she told him, almost apologetically. And something in him relaxed that she would be joining him, a small part of him still concerned that this was all an elaborate ruse to distract him from protecting his wife properly.

  Lorrak frowned as he noted Prim’s presence, although he did not comment. Wise, given that he required the healer’s cooperation, but it also suggested the importance of the one who was injured.

  “I assume negations were not successful.”

  Lorrak glared before giving a low grunt. “I was not aware that you were overly concerned about our treaty with the Narada.”

  Rykkon managed to contain his sigh, but only barely. “Contrary to what you may believe of me, I wish our people no ill will. I have cared for too many of our warriors when they returned from battle, as did my father, and I do not wish it to also affect our young.”

  He knew well that Lorrak likely did not approve of the reminder that their histories were shared, but he cared little. Perhaps it was time to make his sentiments truly known, to meet their scorn with something other than kindly acceptance.

  Prim clung close to his side as they walked, and he hoped that one day she would know his language in full so that these conversations would not leave her nervous at their potential contents, and there was little time to translate.

  “It is Okmar,” Lorrak finally revealed, his pace quickening even at the voicing of it. “Their talks grew long and the Narada were... less than pleased to learn we had humans of our own.” He gave a pointed look at Prim who shrank a little when she caught it. The moons were full, the light not overly generous, but evidently enough for her to walk with relative confidence and catch Lorrak’s censure.

  Rykkon stepped forward slightly, blocking his view of her. “You will not hold her responsible.”

  Lorrak grunted. “That is not for you to decide.”

  Rykkon halted completely. “It is if you wish for me to offer my help.” It surprised him at how much he meant it. He had always thought that regardless of their treatment of him, he would always heal whoever required his assistance. But now... when the thinly veiled threat toward Prim was only hinted at, he was fully prepared to take his wife’s hand and return to his dwelling. Okmar had lived long, with many young to his name. While the guilt would inevitably find him, he would not risk Prim.

  She had to come first.

  Lorrak’s hand went to his blade and he stepped closer, his glare almost a tangible thing. “You dare extort me, healer?”

  “I would prefer not to,” Rykkon assured him, Prim still close to his side. “But surely you must realise that I must see to the safety of my mate. Even in... less than desirable ways.”

  Lorrak stared at him for a long moment, before gesturing to those about him to unhand their weapons. Rykkon did not quite relax, his eyes still wary, still ever watchful for some sign of a trap. “You will heal Okmar,” Lorrak said finally. “Your mate will not also require healing this night.”

  It was not the assurance he needed—not truly. He needed Lorrak to swear that she would be safe all the nights long, and the days as well, but there would be time yet to extract such a vow. He did not yet know if Okmar could be saved, his bundle of potions an aid but not a promise, and he would not have Prim’s fate tied to that of a male who may yet be a dead one.

  “Then I suggest we do not tarry.”

  Lorrak grunted yet again, and they continued to Okmar’s dwelling with no more words between them, except for an anxious Prim who evidently could not stand the not knowing any longer. “What’s happening?”

  Rykkon could not stop his vigilance, but he pulled her closer, his eyes still assessing for any potential dangers about them. But his wife deserved comfort as well as his protection, and he hoped she would prove more proficient in learning his tongue than his mother had ever been able. “I will not have you hurt while I tend to Okmar. I was simply making that clear.”

  Prim shuddered, and he noted he would have to set about making her a fur garment lest the cold season cause her to freeze. The nights were still mild according to his standard, but she had a tendency to shiver and shake that suggested she did not concur. She never complained, however, but he did not trust that as a measure of her comfort—not when she still had such difficulty asking him for things.

  Rarely had he been in Okmar’s home, and when he had, it was for less than pleasant meetings. He pushed away such memories, knowing that to dwell upon them would only insight his anger, his resentment, and now was not the time for any such emotions. He was to assess, and to treat, and negotiation would come later—when he gathered the promises of what elders he could that no vengeance would be sought against either himself or his wife. They could refuse, of course they could, but already he readied himself for the necessity to pack what they could and leave this place entirely. The thought had never truly seemed possible before, but now...

  If it meant keeping his wife safe and amongst the living, it seemed a worthy sacrifice.

  But first he would see to
Okmar.

  They had him laying upon a cot, his flesh ashen and sluggish to change, almost mottled in places. His breath was slow and shallow, and a rattle echoed through him with each breath he managed to pull inward.

  Rykkon bothered with no pleasantries, only stationing Prim away from Lorrak and the one other male that entered the dwelling, before he went to his charge. “Okmar,” he acknowledged when he came closer and noted that he did appear to still be conscious.

  He merely blinked slowly in response. Rykkon frowned and drew an eyelid upward, the better to see, and grimaced at the lines of red so prominent throughout.

  Palmut to help the breathing.

  Garoot to clear the blood.

  And a night of vigilance to see if they would be enlisting a new elder into their ranks come morning.

  “Well? Can you fix him?”

  Rykkon opened the pouch of potions, pulling forth the vile of palmut and coaxing open Okmar’s mouth so he could drink. Breathing first, then the blood, then to pack the wound that the Narada must have inflicted to inject the poison.

  “Perhaps,” was all the assurance he could offer. “He is in a bad way.” Okmar swallowed, a good sign, though he choked and gasped as he did so. But most of the liquid was swallowed all the same, and when he had consumed enough, Rykkon turned to Lorrak. “I require boiling water.”

  Lorrak nodded to the male beside him, who disappeared into a room beyond this chamber. Rykkon did not dwell on whether he should like the luxury of separate chambers in his own home, instead turning back to Okmar to begin the process of undressing him. He heard a warning growl from behind him, and he knew that it was generally considered a dishonour to see an elder disrobed, but if he could order one of the same kind to fetch boiling water, then he could see Okmar’s wounds for himself.

  He grimaced again to see the festering puncture, the poison tainting the edges, inflaming and eating away at the flesh while also polluting the blood. He closed his eyes, considering his stores, the numerous options before him. None seemed strong enough, none came immediately to mind as the one to cure, to heal, to save.

  And yet he had to pick one.

  And so he did.

  “He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

  Rykkon could not spare a glance of disbelief that his wife had spoken thusly, but perhaps he was glad after all that she had not yet learned his tongue, lest she have spoken so in Lorrak’s hearing.

  He packed the leaves against the wound, binding it all with a cloth. The poison stemmed from Okmar’s shoulder, the male groaning as Rykkon manipulated his body to see that it was properly bandaged.

  “We do not speak so. There is little point in assuming death when it has yet to make itself permanent.”

  Except that his wife liked to keep her expectations low, and he supposed, in that he could understand—it was a terrible thing to watch someone die, to hear the final gasps for breath before all colour seeped from their flesh, leaving behind a mere shell of what once held life and power and authority.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, and this time he did look, to see her pale, to see her watching him so carefully, her arms held tightly about herself.

  He would be frightened too, in her position. With a people she could not understand, watching her mate tend to his charge when she had so little knowledge of medicine yet to make even that a comfort. He did not know what the people in Mercy were capable of in terms of healing, but if they grew little food and wore such shabby clothing, he doubted that they were very advanced.

  “You may come closer,” he told her, hoping that perhaps being near him would help her. There was little he could do until Sakmet returned with the water, and she would not be a hindrance.

  Prim crept closer, her hesitation obvious, and she looked over Okmar with something akin to pity. It was not something that Lorrak would find acceptable—he would have Okmar viewed as a warrior even now, an elder worthy of every respect. But he looked every bit of his cycles as he laid there, his breath coming a bit easier from the potion, but still appearing haggard and tense. The poison still held him fast. “Every moment that passes, the poison does him further harm,” Rykkon told Lorrak. “You may wish to encourage the bringing of the water.”

  Lorrak glared. “Water boils when it chooses,” he stated, unmoving. But his eyes flitted to the door before he released a low curse, striding to the room beyond. There was the sound of raised voices, and what Rykkon took to be a harsh cuffing, but then his attention turned to his wife as he saw her relax further. “I do not like to see you fearful.”

  Prim offered him a half-hearted smile. “Then I suggest you don’t look until we’re back at home. I don’t... they’re a frightening bunch, especially since I don’t know if they’re angry with you or with me or... well, both.” Her gaze flickered back to Okmar, and the troubled expression returned to her. “People died of much less back in the colony.”

  His suspicions regarding their medicines somewhat confirmed, Rykkon gave her a nudge. “Further proof that you are away from there, I should think.” Her smile was a little more genuine, though he felt the need to clarify. “Though I cannot promise that he can be saved. Not when... there is no purpose in ignoring that he has served as elder for many cycles. That can make one weary.”

  Prim touched his arm, her hand warm even through his garments. “I know,” she assured him. “And I won’t think any less of you if he doesn’t make it. I hope you know that.”

  It had not even occurred to him to worry himself over that prospect, but he found himself troubled when Lorrak appeared, shaking his head and grumbling, thrusting a pot of steaming water in Rykkon’s direction. He had to steady it quickly, the contents already threatening to escape the confines of their pot, but he righted it swiftly, with only a small glance of exasperation toward Lorrak.

  “There, you have your water. Now heal him.”

  Rykkon took the pot to a nearby table, pouring in garoot and watching the leaves burst and swirl as they touched the heated water. The liquid turned a murky black, dark and foreboding in its way, but powerful. And if Okmar had any hope of living, he would need something just so to counteract the Narada’s poison.

  “I shall need a cup as well,” Rykkon announced, choosing not to look at Lorrak and see any potential disgruntlement that he should be ordered about. But the sound of footsteps suggested his acquiescence, and he was glad of it—he could not fight an elder and a poisoning in addition.

  “It looks rather awful,” Prim declared, peering into the contents of the pot.

  Rykkon hummed his agreement. “But potent. An important quality given his age and how long the poison has been infecting him.”

  Prim nodded, still studying the contents of the pot when Lorrak appeared, handing the cup to Rykkon no more gently than he had the pot of boiling water.

  “My thanks,” Rykkon acknowledged with a short bow of the head. He would not take advantage of this moment, no matter how his position allowed him to. He was there to heal, not antagonise.

  Rykkon stood close to Okmar as he supported his head, the better so he could drink and keep from choking. But despite his age, the male was large and heavy, and the position was awkward. “Prim, could you allow him shallow sips while I hold him?”

  Her eyes widened and she looked cautiously at Lorrak before stepping forward. She took the cup from Rykkon and was about to do so, when Lorrak appeared, his hand firm as it held her wrist, his expression equally so. “She does not touch him.”

  Rykkon calmly returned Okmar to the cot, standing to his full height. “You will release my wife. I am the healer that you have entrusted with his care, and I will do all that I can. Now, release her, lest we revisit the possibility that Okmar will be forced to suffer through this alone.”

  Prim winced as Lorrak’s grip tightened, and Rykkon very nearly bodily removed him before collecting his wife and leaving for their home, but just before he did so, the elder released Prim, though he seemed barely able to contain the desire to shove her a
way from him.

  “I tire of that threat, healer.”

  “As I tire of having to give it,” Rykkon answered, knowing full well it was true. He did not relish the knowledge that he was willing to bargain with the life of one of his people, but he saw no other recourse when Prim was being used equally so.

  Yet squabbling was only incensing an already difficult situation, so Rykkon tampered down his lingering rage at Prim’s treatment. “Would you like to hold him while I get him to drink? Or should you like to hold the cup?”

  Lorrak did not answer, instead moving to draw Okmar up, in almost the exact manner Rykkon had been doing previously. Prim watched it all with wary eyes, her only action to cross over to the other side of the cot, all the nearer to Rykkon. He took the cup from her with a lingering brush of his fingers, wishing he had more time to assure her. But there would be moments yet for that—or so he told himself as he turned from her, coaxing Okmar to drink, to swallow, to heal.

  The male seemed less conscious than when Rykkon had first arrived, his groans having diminished into something that resembled sleep. He was doubtful that it was a natural sleep, one born from a needful rest. It was entirely possible that his body was simply giving up, an all too potent reality that he dared not yet suggest to Lorrak or his guard.

  Rykkon gestured for Lorrak to settle Okmar once more, and he did so with surprising care. He was usually one of the more stoic of the elders, practical in his rule and somewhat fair in his authority. But evidently the poisoning of Okmar had upset him greatly, if his freely expressed glares were any indication of his wellbeing.

  “What has come of the Narada?” Rykkon asked presently. There was little else he could do, the body merely requiring time to work—or to pass, depending on its whim. He wondered if he should stay, to watch over Okmar and give any further relief that he could. Before Prim had come to him, he would have done so, his nightly vigils often giving way to daily requests, the healer being in the village a reminder to all that they had ails, though they would not deign to visit his dwelling directly.