Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Read online

  None of this did he say into the translator, but Rykkon understood most of it. She was kin, then, and clearly did not share her leader’s position that her father’s life was worth her intervention.

  He scanned her appearance, looking for some sign that James was unfit and worthy of her contempt—one of the few reasons of his kind to disrespect an elder in such a manner.

  There appeared to be many.

  Pale flesh was dotted with brilliant blacks and purples, others an ugly shade of yellow, very nearly as one of his people suffering from the grundge and their skin revolted against a single colour, instead choosing to display all of them at once.

  But he knew that humans possessed no such capability. She had a great many hurts, obviously none rubbed carefully with salve to soothe the persistent ache that would undoubtedly have accompanied them. Her skin looked dry and chapped, almost as if she had been working in the suns without adequate protection.

  He supposed it was possible; her clothes were ragged enough that great holes formed at the seams, though other places were carefully mended.

  Her deadened expression faded at her leader’s words, a spark of anger becoming prominent. She opened her mouth as she stared at him, arguably so she could refute any of his orders with a harsh word, but just as quickly as it appeared, so too did any sign of her ire.

  Why could he not master his emotions so effectively?

  He waited to watch her fruitlessly obey, to see her go to her father’s side and plead with Kondarr that he release him, but instead she moved a bit closer, her eyes flitting over the entire company.

  “Would you take me with you?”

  “Prim!”

  She ignored the startled exclamations from most of her kin, even her father turning his attention from Kondarr so he might gape at her with unconcealed horror.

  Prim frowned slightly, noting the translator in Desmond’s hands and reaching for it. He grasped it more firmly and shook his head, still too appalled at her suggestion to form a retort.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, addressing them again, her words careful and clear as she tried to convey her meaning to a people she believed could not understand.

  “I wish to go with you.” She pointed toward the direction they had come and back to herself, a sad sort of smile crossing her lips. “Or at least, I wish to not be here any longer.”

  “What is she saying?” Kondarr asked, his tone conveying more confusion rather than anger.

  “She...” For some reason quite unknown to him, Rykkon almost wished to keep the female’s desire to himself. He forced the words to come anyway. “She does not wish to reside with her people any longer. She wishes for us to take her with us.”

  Kondarr actually laughed, a deep, grating sound infused with great humour—at least, the humour was plain to his ears. To the rest of the colonists, however, a great deal blanched and took a step backward. Kondarr withdrew his blade from James’s neck, pushing the man away with a heavy hand which sent him stumbling to the ground, the older female coming to care for him as he spluttered and groused in the dirt.

  And still Prim looked at them all, waiting for any acknowledgement that they understood.

  Kondarr pointed to the translator, and this time Desmond did not recoil, resignedly moving toward him and holding it upright, only for Kondarr to snatch it from his hands and use it himself. They may not know what mechanisms enable it to work, nor how to build such a strange device, but even they could plainly see that pushing the small button on the side was all that was required to make it function. Kondarr turned to Desmond. “You called upon her as champion for that man,” he nodded down toward James with barely concealed disgust. “Now you will let her speak.”

  Rykkon did not know why he bothered to encourage her, since clearly he had no intention of granting her request. It very nearly angered him on her behalf.

  He knew what it was to be rejected and scorned.

  Prim hesitated only a moment when Kondarr gestured her to come closer, and he held the translator out steadily, not releasing it for her to hold. Her discomfort was obvious, though she admirably tried to disguise it. The sound the machine produced grated on his ears, and for a moment he wished he could pull the device away and bid her speak plainly. To him alone. But he forced himself to stillness, listening to her proposal.

  “I’d like to go with you,” she repeated, now for the entire company. “There is nothing for me here.” She took a deep breath, and stood a little taller, her expression becoming one of determination. “I’d like to go as someone’s wife.”

  The entire company looked to him for confirmation, certain that the translator had selected an inappropriate word.

  But it was the same as had fallen from her lips, much to all of their surprise.

  She glanced about their group somewhat uncertainly. “You... you do have wives, yes?”

  “Prim, you cannot be serious!” Desmond spluttered, his expression filled with unabashed horror.

  “Girl, you get back to our tent or so help me,” James muttered from the ground, trying to find his own footing, pawing at the female beside him as he made to rise. Rykkon fought the urge to frown, pleased when Sakmet moved forward and offered him a swift kick that sent him sprawling once more.

  Kondarr ignored the opinions of the human males and inclined his head ever so slightly toward Prim, confirming that mating most certainly existed. “We do. But why would we desire you?”

  Her cheeks reddened at that, and Rykkon wondered if the heat was beginning to affect her adversely. “I can cook, and mend,” they all looked at her clothes dubiously, and she pushed at one of the tears in evident frustration at its very existence. “When someone isn’t tearing them, they are perfectly fine.”

  Kondarr gave her a predatory grin, and Rykkon was quite certain it was more to frighten than to show appreciation for her supposed talent. “Admire what you see, do you? Want an Arterian husband between those legs?”

  Her eyes burned, but she carefully tucked away her anger in order to address him without further insult. “I would be a wife, and I would have a husband. Naturally that would be a part of the arrangement.”

  Rykkon found himself watching his kin more than the female, a frown tugging at his features. He did not like the way they suddenly assessed her, most with thinly veiled disgust, while others seemed to be considering the prospect.

  Kondarr however, had apparently tired of their exchange. “We do not mate with your kind.” He turned his attention to Desmond, quite effectively dismissing her. “The hasart?”

  Desmond cleared his throat, relieved that her apparently absurd suggestion had been so summarily dismissed. He gestured to some cowardly person hiding within the camp, urging them forward to produce the collected beetles.

  Prim stood to the side, her shoulders somewhat slumped.

  Lost.

  That is how she appeared to him. As if hope had suddenly extinguished, and all that was left was the crushing despair of disappointment.

  Was life truly so terrible for her here?

  It was not his business. The life he could offer her in his village was not an enviable one, and it was foolish to even consider suggesting such an alliance.

  But it had been made perfectly plain that he would never receive a mate, a wife, from the families of his tribe, not with his history. He had resigned himself to that prospect long ago, quite nearly convincing himself that his quiet solitude was not as terrible a thing as he had first imagined.

  But he remembered what it was like when his dwelling held more than himself. When there were the low whispers of voices in the mornings, of food warming by the fire—of laughter.

  When had he last laughed?

  Cycles ago.

  He did not know this female—not in the least. Had never laid eyes on her when he had come in the past. But as he imagined a life that at the very least included someone...

  “Wait.”

  He said aloud.

&nbs
p; In the language of the colonists.

  The entire group stilled, staring at him as he continued to regard the female.

  She glanced up sharply, her brow furrowed and her gaze cautious. As right it should be.

  “I will take you for a mate.”

  He said the words carefully, the language thick with disuse upon his tongue. But she seemed to understand for her eyes widened—not with the fear that he expected, but with relief.

  Strange female, this.

  Kondarr turned to him, his expression dark. “You will be silent.”

  Rykkon nodded, needing to say no more. Not when she understood.

  Kondarr strode forward, his steps sure and angry even as he grasped Rykkon by the neck and drew him closer. He could have disengaged himself from his temporary commander’s grasp, but he remained still. He would fight for her, for the right to have her in his home, but there was no need to anger his kin more than necessary.

  Already they would be furious.

  “Why would you even attempt...” Kondarr closed his eyes, the question dying even as it was formed.

  They knew why. None else would have him.

  He did not want their pity. Never had. And most typically he received their disgust more than their compassion. Kondarr’s grip tightened briefly before he released him entirely. “You will have to go before the elders for this.”

  “I am aware.”

  “They may not be lenient. Not this time.”

  Privately, Rykkon knew that they possessed little choice in the matter. Matings were between the individuals involved, and only under the rarest circumstances could another intervene.

  They could attempt it—could threaten most assuredly, but he was their only healer. Valuable, at least in that regard. There was no need to pretend otherwise.

  In his darker moments, he wished it had been different. That his place with his tribe was secured by more than the knowledge and skills he could contribute. That the communal fires were open to him, that the feasts and festivals could hold a shared joy instead of the cautious avoidance that met him in public.

  Prim was staring at him, though she gave wary glances to Kondarr as well. She swallowed, obviously unsure of how to proceed when Desmond took hold of her arm. “Prim, you cannot be serious about this. Your place is here; with your people. You know this.”

  She looked at him steadily, and Rykkon noted that her leader gripped a particularly purple portion of her flesh. She must feel a great deal of pain, though she hid it commendably.

  Evidently he would be the one to tend those wounds—to cover them with salve and to take away her hurts.

  The prospect did not displease him.

  “I know no such thing,” she retorted, extracting her arm from his hold. “And if he will have me, then I suppose I need to get my things.”

  She did not look back toward her progenitors, only glanced at him for confirmation. Remembering Kondarr’s previous order, he gave a deliberate nod of his head.

  “You are a fool,” Sakmet hissed from beside him. “She could be a spy. They have revolted before and would happily do it again.”

  Prim watched him as she moved a little ways off, casting him cautious glances as she did so, as if afraid that he would depart before she could prepare herself.

  His company could leave, but he would remain. He considered his acceptance a promise, and he would hold to his word. She would be his mate, and it would be a poor beginning if his first act was to abandon her to whatever made her so desperate to leave.

  He gave her another nod, and she finally quickened her pace and ran out into the Wastes.

  She kept her things away from the oasis?

  That would partially explain the state of her skin, though did little to provide a motivation for doing so.

  Kondarr grunted as the hasart were produced, the bodies carefully contained within leather pouches—also provided by his people.

  “And the food?” Desmond enquired, suddenly appearing weary as the Arterians unloaded their burdens of dried meats.

  They tossed the food upon the ground, Desmond looking briefly dismayed before he gestured again for others to approach and help him hide away their new earnings.

  Kondarr did not look at him again, merely grunting as he passed. “We will not slow for you.”

  Rykkon bowed his head, tempering his true retort with a reminder that this man was currently his commander and therefore required some measure of respect. “Understood.”

  He was reasonably confident that he could see Prim safely to his home should she prove a slow walker, but there was safety in their numbers that could not be denied.

  It was for that reason that he hoped she hurried to collect her things.

  His people moved off, and he followed, but only to the very edge of the Wastes, resituating his coverings now that the suns were once more fully overhead.

  Prim had a threadbare satchel flung over one shoulder, her hand carefully gripping onto its strap—presumably so it would not simply fall apart under the strain of her meagre belongings.

  She appeared truly worried when he was not where last she had seen him, her eyes searching the landscape fretfully before finally landing on him. He offered her an open palm, indicating her welcome as she came forward, though he made no move to relieve her of her pack—for certain he would mishandle it and cause all of its contents to spill upon the sand.

  He was gratified to note that she had donned more clothing, including a scarf that wrapped about her head and shielded all but her eyes to the piercing heat. “I do not have a canister for water,” she murmured regretfully, eyeing the large expanse of the Wastes with dubious, yet determined eyes. “Do you think I shall make it to your home?”

  Rykkon stepped away from the blessed relief of Mercy, striding purposefully away from the watchful stares of her people as his mate hurried to follow.

  “Not all is as it seems. You shall be well.”

  It was not the danger of the Wastes that truly worried him, but his people.

  2. Walk

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Kondarr hissed, waving the cloth once more in Prim’s face. “Even you should be able to see the wisdom in it.”

  Rykkon took a measured breath, willing himself to calmness. “It will frighten her.”

  Kondarr looked at him as though he had suddenly grown a second head—or perhaps as if hair had sprouted from his head. His fingers itched again to check, but he forced them into stillness.

  “What is more important, her comfort or the safety of our people when she reveals herself a spy and uses them to return and share all our secrets?”

  Rykkon closed his eyes. He did not wish it to be true—that Prim, the female that had agreed to be his mate—could solely have agreed to their arrangement for the purpose of gathering information. He almost wished that his kin had not been waiting for them here and that their journey had continued on alone so he might learn more of her without distrustful presumptions poisoning their interactions.

  Prim watched the argument with careful eyes, the words likely a meaningless melding of sounds to her untrained ear.

  She came a little closer, and he noticed that the skin of her fingers was red and chapped, and what little he could see of the skin about her eyes was equally so.

  She needed shelter, not to stand here quibbling.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her hand brushing at his arm in an unfamiliar manner. He nearly started at it, so different was her touch from any that he was used to.

  Instead of giving him opportunity to answer, Kondarr acted, taking the strip of cloth and coming behind her, his fingers clumsy as he pulled away her head covering, revealing her hair and face to the suns, catching the seemingly delicate strands as he attempted to secure the blindfold.

  Hurting her.

  Exposing her.

  Rykkon pushed him away with a growl. “You will not touch her.”

  Prim pulled away the blindfold, her fingers shaking slightly as she lo
oked between them, her eyes finally settling on the cloth before she addressed him. “Must I?”

  He wanted to bite out that she most certainly did not. That he trusted her to keep their secrets and hide them well, as all of his people did. But she seemed to glean a fuller answer from the ensuing silence instead, for she nodded hesitantly before fastening it herself. “Will...” she swallowed, the tremble leaving her voice as she did so. “Will you guide me?”

  She looked small and helpless—something not usually looked upon with favour within his kind, but in him it fostered a different sort of emotion. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

  The desire to protect.

  He walked forward, taking her hand and tucking it into his belt so that she had something tangible to hold. For a moment he considered holding onto her himself, but he would need both his hands free should any of the dwellers appear and require discouragement at attacking.

  Kondarr grunted at the arrangement, though it did not seem to be fully from approval.

  “Keep up.”

  Rykkon did not bother to translate the command. She would go at whatever pace she was able. He would not drag her along, causing even more hurts to her already abraded flesh. That would not be their beginning.

  Walking proved... difficult.

  She did her best to maintain a normal gait, but she seemed to shuffle, her feet catching in the sands with great frequency, causing her to trip and hold onto him all the tighter, her head coverings falling lose each time. He would stop and allow her to collect herself, pulling at her scarf so that her skin was properly hidden away once more, finding the feel of her hair a fascinating thing.

  “Do you...”

  She halted with a shake of her head, instead continuing to trudge along behind him until he pressed her to continue.

  “Do you require something?”

  She vacillated, and he wondered why it troubled him that she would be so reticent to make a request of him, or even ask a question.

  Evidently asking him to take her as a mate was simple to her, but the rest was not.