The next morning gave us better fortune and a weak sun hovered above the tree canopy. The fresh snowfall had buried more of our world beneath its idyllic carpet and even the sounds of bird call depleted to nothing.
“It’s eerie, isn’t it?” Sorrel whispered. I nodded, appreciating his sense of reverence in our isolation. His eyebrows quirked. “You belong here. The world has become silent and so have you.” He shivered. “I feel loud and out of place.”
I smiled, but wiped the expression clean almost as soon as it flashed across my face. Desiring to hear my own voice more than I wanted air, my inability to communicate hindered every facet of my existence. We worked well enough together, Sorrel and I, but his constant prattle induced a frustration I struggled to master. I yearned to silence him with a fitting rebuke, or call to Sonora for aid. My worthless tongue gave me neither option. Besides, I knew Sorrel wouldn’t shut up and Sonora wouldn’t come.
We clambered up a bank of snow, swords clanking inside their sheaths. At the top, we surveyed a white landscape, interrupted by high tree branches and the roof apexes of taller buildings. A barn had caved beneath the weight of snow on its roof and Sorrel rested his hands on his hips. “That was my village.” I heard a catch in his voice. “Perhaps my mother still lives.” Tugging on his furry sleeve, I jerked my head towards the remains of his home. He shook his head. “No thank you, Este. There’s nothing left for me. My quest is with you and a visit there will only delay us.” He swallowed and his tone grew hard. “Though I’d enjoy running my stepfather through with my blade when he tries to send me up the blacksmith’s chimney.” I squeezed his arm in solidarity and we took a moment to consider his change in skill and bearing.
The path-delineator slid from my pocket, requiring me to remove my gloves to open the catch. Its white face glinted against the landscape, the black dials almost obscene against the light. I held it in my palm in the position it felt comfortable and pointed it towards Sorrel’s village. The needle swung to the right and marked a quarter of the dial’s face.
“East.” Sorrel nodded. “I believe that’s right. If this dial is directional and reliable, we can use it for navigation.” He peered across at the right-hand dial, which seemed linked to me. His eyelashes blinked in quick succession and he stood upright, his teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “This one alters,” he mused, jabbing a finger at the needle. His eyes narrowed. “It measures something about you, Este for the indicator shows another increase.”
I peered at the needle and saw the truth of his words. Overnight it had edged up two notches from the start and held a more confident trajectory, wavering less as I moved. Sorrel shrugged and dug his hands into his pockets. “Which way, Este? We must begin somewhere.”
Heaving out a sigh and closing my eyes, I felt for the sword in the chasm of my soul where the hive used to be. Sleepy and reluctant, it responded with a feckless tug as though I’d disturbed it from slumber. Lifting my right hand, I tipped my wrist from side to side to demonstrate my difficulty. Sorrel’s brow furrowed. “You’ve found it, but it’s weak?” he said. Smiling with relief at his perception, I nodded. Pointing at the path-delineator nestled in my palm, Sorrel jerked his head towards the landscape. “Why don’t we use both?”
I cocked my head and watched as he nudged my wrist. “Hold it up high,” he ordered, “and close your eyes. Think of the thing which calls you and imagine its source. I’ll watch the dials.”
I did as he asked, closing my eyes against the blanketed view. A cool wind nipped at my shins and tugged on Limah’s oilskin jacket. My immersion in the hive taught me the ability to block out distraction and I focused on the sound of clashing blades. Instead of wincing against the jarring reverberations around my skull, I leaned into them, seeking their origin. Hunger for it blossomed in my soul and took me by surprise. I owned it. I wanted it. Familiar and comforting, I stroked my fingers over the fragmented engraving on the hilt. I knew its weight and heft as though it belonged to me, yet I’d never held it outside my imagination. “Bee Queen’s Champion, where are you?” I spoke the words in my mind and felt the object’s flare of interest. The returning pulse carried expectancy. And something else.
The flutter of wings occupied the vacancy in my soul and blackness descended. The old drone’s laughter filled the gap. He mocked me and I withdrew, losing connection with the sword and feeling the faintness of its hope like a fragile, failing tendril.
“Este!” Sorrel’s fingers clasped my shoulder and wetness pushed its way through my clothing. I opened my eyes to find myself on the ground.