Stinging Memories
I glared at the neighboring spires where the lion-peacock gargoyle and elephant-seal perched, their shadows growing long in the sweltering afternoon heat. How could they sleep so soundly? Ever since the seven foreigners arrived, that sick, foreboding sense had worsened, wriggling like maggots in my gut. It wasn’t the marching, rising and falling with the moon cycle. That I’d come to expect, to ignore. No, this was something more. Why weren’t my kin alarmed?
Set on winning the Keeper’s favor and thus my freedom, I’d foregone sleeping, keeping a close eye on the envoys from dusk to dawn, but that was the extent of my usefulness. As of now, the power I used to crush the scrim didn’t extend to anything…human. I blew out a candle in one of the envoy’s chambers last night, gave him a good fright – me, a good laugh – but beyond that? My fingers were motes and slipped through skin. I had to work on it. Master it. Channel all my scattered energy.
A crow passed over the ward that covered the isle, cawing obnoxiously. A beam shot through a cloud and gleamed off the dome’s translucent fibers. It may’ve protected the bees from predators but didn’t prevent birds from mocking it. Bird shit, still sizzling from the ward’s bite, plopped from the metallic sky and splattered the lion’s nose. I snickered, but my kin didn’t stir. Why weren’t they pissed? Why didn’t they ache with loneliness nor fight for better treatment? Had time atrophied their will to live? Per the eldest, pondering was pointless. So instead, I homed in on the threat.
Although I could stretch my glimmer to great lengths, the citadel’s walls were most receptive. The ashlar hummed beneath my myriad specks, tingling, sucking me in. The fortress was a living, breathing extension of me. Or rather, I of her. I stretched to the outer gardens, where the seven foreigners gathered. The first test, I’d learned from the savvy. Some of these envoys had spent the better part of their lives prepping, researching, and studying hive husbandry and theory, hoping to earn the bid from their nations to be here. Now, it was time to evaluate what they’d learned via the Praxis.
Sweat glistened on the cropped cuts of the three Mids, who still donned their thin, scamall tunics and trousers, holes eating through the knees and sleeves. The four Polers had braided their long hair and traded in their heavy brocade gowns, their tailored suits trimmed in flashy stones, for pastel blouses and loose pants. A prudent choice. The sky was overcast, but that didn’t deter the sun. Heat shimmered in waves over the rolling fields of foxgloves.
The envoys lined up behind a grove of shaggy trees and spoke in clipped, somber tones. So far from my perch, I crept around a clump of hostas, their broad, teal leaves silvering beneath the filtered light, and strained to hear.
“Before we begin,” said Samara, eyes keen, “I encourage all of you to slip on one of these.” They held out their arms as if holding a pile of coats, but all I could see was their own carmine sleeves. Confused frowns rippled across the faces of the envoys. It wasn’t just me, then. The savvy grinned and moved slightly. The invisible attire refracted like sunlight through a spiderweb. “Smoke cloaks. The stink deters bees from stinging…most of the time.” They handed one to each envoy.
A Poler with a braid of long, inky hair curled his nose. “These positively reek.” He held it away from his periwinkle blouse like a dead rat. “Will keep more than just the bees away.”
Tense giggles bubbled among the group, but Samara remained grim.
“Wear it. Don’t wear it.” The savvy shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. Like I said, the cloak can prevent the random sting. But with your attitude, Enzo, I wouldn’t put it past the bees to swarm you. Little good it’ll do then.”
The other envoys quickly slipped on their smoke cloaks and, after rolling his eyes, the surly Poler pulled his on as well.
“Perfect. Let’s begin.” Samara smiled, though it didn’t touch their eyes. “A Keeper must always listen to their hive. An angry queen means what?”
“An angry hive,” said the envoys in unison.
“And an angry hive?” Samara pointed a stick at the grove. The light flickered from green to black where the colonies zizzed. Workers soared between tangled trunks and a knoll of magenta foxgloves. The staff had transported these seven hives outside earlier.
“A lethal swarm.”
“Followed by certain death—” they twisted around, brass braid whipping, “—unless the healer finds you in time. Now, each of you will approach your respective hive and remove a wedge of comb. But only if the bees acquiesce. If they protest, do not approach. It’s just not your day. You’ll have to excel at another stage. I repeat, if the bees don’t invite you, don’t intrude. Understood?”
Murmurs and nods rippled through the seven. Fear drenched the air, bitter as bile. I was latent energy, no actual vessel, but—
Barbs pierced my cheeks, my palms. My past reclaimed me. I shrieked. Flailed. Desperately trying to fight the stings piercing every inch of my body. Venom curdled my blood, now pounding thick in my ears. I fought. Kicked. Tried to run away. But I was strapped down. I clawed the bindings. Wake up! I didn’t want to relive this. My voice snagged, rendered useless like in all nightmares. Tears burned my eyes. Wake up! My tongue was swollen from the stings. Darkness shuttered my eyelids.
“Wake the raze up!” I cried, victorious. Finally. Teal leaves brushed my wings.
“What was that?” A twitchy envoy stepped back from the line.
Sweat trickled down my phantom nose, itching something fierce, but I didn’t dare scratch. A squad of boots faced the hostas. They’d heard me.
Samara waved his question away. “Abelha has her…quirks. One of the joys of winning the Keepership. Carry on.”
More mumbling from the envoys as they eyed the bush I hid under. Only one seemed unfazed. Her gaze on the hives, her shoulders were relaxed despite my outcry.
“What did you expect?” she asked. “The Keepership must be earned. If you’re scared, best you head back now, so the worthy can assume the position faster.”
With that bold tone? The envoy from Croi Croga. Lenita, I’d heard Samara call her. Though leaner, smaller than the rest, the other envoys feared her. And because they feared her, they hated her. I didn’t hate the Crogan, but I was wary. For if she boasted this much confidence, she must’ve been undermining the Keeper and, therefore, had to be eliminated. But how? The buzzing drew nearer, swelling to an atonal chorus. The ground trembled, and I shrank to peer between silvered leaves.
“Felipe!” shrieked an envoy chasing after a figure draped in a writhing cloak. No, not a cloak. A swarm. “Help him!”
All the envoys fled but one. Lenita. She removed her smoke cloak, cropped hair winking with each meditated step. The savvy yelled to cover up, that the bees were riled, but she ignored them. She hummed a deep, throaty tune. A Midworld chant, I recognized. The buzz softened and, one by one, the bees extricated themselves from Felipe and moved to her, covering her. But differently. They were drawn to her like a vibrant foxglove, delicately landing, purring up her neck, her arms.
Angry red bumps covered the Mid’s face, and he collapsed. A lot of good his smoke cloak did. My skin pricked, mirroring his pain, the pain from my past, and I dug my claws into the brambles, fighting to stay. The healer, Marguerite, rushed forward and fell to her knees. She took out a large syringe and jabbed his chest. Nothing. Another. Nothing. On the third, his shoulders heaved, and he gasped.
The bees had engulfed Lenita, except her tawny face, which now glowed with relief like the healer’s. The other envoys, cowards, all of them, hid behind the grove, arguing in strangled tones. It was hard to hear them over the drone of hives, the mounting distance, but ‘witch’ and ‘Crogan’ razored from their huddle. They thought she was a Midworld enchantress. Lenita was either a hero, incredibly stupid, or just plain mad. Perhaps a potent cocktail of all three. But that also meant she was a threat to be taken care of. And, as the poltroons whispered and stung her with glares, I now knew I wasn’t her only enemy. If I couldn’t physically reach her, could I not manipulate the others to do it for me? An enemy of an enemy, as the saying went.