One Dilemma at a Time
Outfitted in scamall trousers, a thin tunic, and a ratty pair of ankle boots, Naokah grabbed her pack and paused, glaring at the smoke cloak crumpled on her bed, its sheer fabric only evident as it winked beneath the stained glass. Samara brought it by earlier, and it was exceedingly difficult not to shout a slew of Midese curses at them. A cloak that protected her from bees was here the whole razing time? All those long, out of the way excursions on the veranda had eaten up valuable moments when she could’ve been searching for leads. What might’ve changed, who could she have saved with the cloak? The anger was misplaced, though. Fear had guided every single bad choice she’d made since arriving, and now she had to make up for it. Besides, as Samara had explained, the cloak could protect her from a sting here and there, but it hadn’t helped the envoy who’d been swarmed. Lenita, not the enchanted cloak, had saved him.
The cloak, though a nice gesture, would prove useless today. Having to trek somewhere upwards of thirty miles over difficult terrain in the bleating sun was already asking for heatstroke. And with cobwebby fabric that had the breathability of a sail and reeked of smoke? She’d be dead before she found the swarm. She was facing her greatest fear head-on, armorless, with misgivings that rattled her core. Misgivings were for people with options, though, and she had none. Naokah gave her room, pale violet in the morning light, one final look.
“Wish me luck, Lenita,” she said, voice cracking, her conversation with the Keeper like a rising tide. Caillte represented painful longing and nostalgia but also, though often repressed – irrevocable loss. In her mind’s eye, her sister was alive. Death wasn’t an option. But this week had shown her how fleeting life was. She’d embraced Brielle just a couple nights before, only to have her ripped away. Naokah needed to prepare herself for the worst because, if she’d learned nothing else in her twenty years, it was that life didn’t have a translation for mercy.
A guppy the shade of overripe cloudcane swam in the meandering stream beneath her, and she smiled weakly, pulling her door shut with a thud. The fish, at least, she’d grown accustomed to. Would the same prove true for the bees? Mila was waiting in the hallway, wearing a similar outfit, save a big, floppy hat, its strap tied in a bow beneath her pale chin.
“Ready?” Mila asked.
“As much as I’ll ever be,” Naokah said, and they strode to the foyer, where they’d meet Samara for supplies. The air seemed denser today, the shadows clinging to her like cooling tar, slowing her down, holding her back, as if the citadel didn’t want her to leave. She pocketed her dread as they entered the foyer. Samara awaited them, face grim. As they stood beneath the flickering chandeliers, Laerte plodded in, eyes hard with flinty resolve.
“Here are your provisions. Food. Water. Some melgo, for your victory lap home,” said Samara. A brown sack flew through the air, and Naokah caught it. She pulled off her pack and tucked it inside. Notes of roasted lamb, cheese pastries, and chocolate cranberries wafted through the bag, upsetting her stomach. Nausea had been percolating since her visit with the Keeper.
“Gather round.” Samara raised their arms and pulled open a large map. The three envoys squashed in close. “This is us.” The savvy pointed at a red triangle at the northernmost part of the isle.
Laerte sucked his teeth as they pored over the rolling terrain. “Lots of ground to cover.”
“It is,” Samara said. “Which means you’d better get going…if you plan to return at all. Any questions?” They pulled out three smaller, rolled-up maps fastened with rosewood string, and handed one to each envoy.
“Yes,” said Mila, ginger brows furrowed on the mountain terraces that sprouted along the map’s center. A trek a pampered Poler would’ve undoubtedly struggled with. “Are we allowed to help one another?”
Samara’s face softened. “You can, sure. But whoever enters the citadel, bees covering their skin, is the true victor. There will be no room for debate.”
Envoys before had spent all their energy undermining one another in an attempt to win. They hadn’t been hunted down by a wicked creature, though. They could help each other, but before returning, a decision would have to be made. With the Polers out of the mix and Laerte’s promise to administer aid to the other Mid nations, Naokah’s competitive streak had faded. Any of them would make a good Keeper. Besides, she was more focused on finding her sister and Brielle. Ridiculous, she knew. Not likely. But she needed something to cling on to, no matter how dim. Today could be her last. She preferred to spend it hopeful.
“These packs,” Naokah said, shifting hers onto the ground. “Weapons included?”
“Surprised you didn’t steal a blade from the kitchen,” Samara teased, and Naokah squirmed. Their eyes met, and something beyond mirth flickered in the savvy’s stare. They knew about her botched attempt at reading Lenita’s journal. “Yes, there’s a wrapped dagger in your sack. Though it’s not nature you’ll need to watch out for.”
Tense silence followed, reminding everyone of the stakes. Yes, per the Keeper, finding the split hive was of the utmost priority. But, supposing one of them was actually successful and retrieved said hive, they had to make it back in one piece before nightfall. Either the murderer was out there waiting or would be in the citadel waiting. Neither possibility was heartwarming.
She swallowed hard, riffling through her pack. The other envoys followed her lead, tugging the blades out of their sacks and attaching them to their shoulder straps for ease of access.
What if this was all a setup? After all, what better way to take out the envoys than have them dispersed, alone, around the isle? The killer could pick them off, one by one. The citadel hadn’t proven to be a sanctuary by any means, yet whoever the culprit was, human or beast, had had to work around the bustle of the staff.
She eyed Samara, whose jaw strained, yanking on the thread of Naokah’s ever-unraveling sanity. When she had attempted climbing back up the ladder from the distillery, Samara had been the one to shuffle her along, claiming Brielle could handle herself. All the while, someone else could’ve swooped in and taken her.
Still, the question remained. Why? Samara knew the bees, perhaps even better than the Keeper. Why hadn’t they competed for the Keepership? Maybe, after two iterations of the Praxis going incredibly wrong, the first group returning home out of their razing minds, the second, not returning home at all, Samara would step up and take the reins? Surely the Keeper wasn’t in on it too? Yet, why was she leaving early? What did they know that the rest of the world didn’t? Was the gargoyle the master puppeteer and everyone here on strings? Naokah tugged her pack on. First, she’d find the bees, then her sister, then Brielle. Next, she’d find the culprit. One dilemma at a time.
Naokah’s gaze shifted back to her map. A large span of grottos sat at its southernmost tip, and something about the location, its proximity to the end of the isle, closeness to the sea, sprouted cold sweat on her palms. Daughter forbid she find them there. What a horrible trek back, covered in bees, climbing up and down. The room began spinning, shadows and unintelligible whispers meshing with the hives.
A cold hand grabbed her arm. “You all right?” the savvy said, not making eye contact.
“Yes, thanks, Samara.” She stared at their canted face, waiting for their gaze to move upwards. It didn’t. Despite the warm morning, they wore their usual uniform, but a longer, ruffly sleeve billowed from beneath the red, concealing their scratched arm.
What else are you hiding? she wanted to ask but refrained. Not the time.
“Everyone, we think it best you know,” Samara folded their arms over their chest, “a bit more news must touch your ears before you head off.”
Groans filled the foyer. A fish moved beneath Mila, giving her a start before it zipped down the eastern hall. Naokah placed a hand on her bony shoulder.
“Kjell is no longer in the healer’s quarters.”
“Great,” Laerte said, meaning anything but great. “He’s now competing too?”
“You misunderstood me,” Samara said, shaking their head. “He was still amidst when Marguerite checked on him this morning. He didn’t just wake up and walk out.”
“Unbelievable.” Naokah let out a derisive laugh. “Someone took him.”
* * *
The envoys clambered out of the citadel and through the hedge maze. Though it was early, the sun shone brightly through the clouds and foliage, dappling their shadowed path in feathery, canary patches. Honeysuckle glazed the already heavy air, riling Naokah’s belly.
What kind of monster kidnapped someone unconscious? Kjell may’ve been a prick, but he was Brielle’s prick. They both deserved better. Unease crept up Naokah’s neck, and she spun around. A slender shadow stood at the panel of arched windows beneath the donjon. Her gaze then climbed to the creepy, bull-faced gargoyle that stared in the wrong direction, its eyes on the Keeper’s silhouette.
Logic told her to run. Head for the gate that led to the port. Jump on the closest ship, even if it was a bee barge, and get out of there. This place was getting more sinister by the minute. But she had to stay the course. Or all this, her long hours of training, her sacrifices, missing her family, would be for nothing. She had to find out what happened to Lenita, to Brielle and Clisten, the rest, even if it killed her.
They passed by the shark fountain where she and Mila had somehow fallen asleep together, seemingly safe out of the confines of the citadel. It was only last night, but it felt like eons ago. Fatigue was manipulative – stretching time.
“Should we band together?” Laerte asked when they reached the south gate.
“As much as I want to, I think the best way for us to find the hive is splitting up. There’s just too much ground to cover if we don’t,” said Naokah halfheartedly. She didn’t want to be alone right now. Not with Kjell’s disappearance too.
“You’re right,” Mila said, shaking her head. “Well, good luck.”
“Be careful,” Naokah said, sounding foolish. Why wouldn’t they be? The other two nodded, then were on their separate ways, and she was alone. She pulled out her map, hands trembling as she unrolled it, trying to steady her mind, solidify her plan. She’d walk along the stream that emptied into a great lake, then proceed along the fjord until she reached the southernmost part, the grottos. Should she get lost, she could always head westward and hit the large spiky wall that surrounded the isle, then head north to the citadel.
She walked through ankle-high brambles heavy with dew, soaking her shoes, until she hit the stream. It wasn’t too wide, but it was thick with moss, stirring with fish, frogs, and who knew what else. She wouldn’t wade through it unless she had no other choice. Flat boulders ran along the side she was on; groves of jabuticabas lined the other. Big black berries coated the bark of the unusual trees’ trunks and branches like thousands of eyes, watching her every move. Naokah ignored their stares and moved like a hunter, senses piqued, waiting for the hum of the hive, the wriggle of translucent wings under the sun.
Within a few minutes, the weight of the pack and trekking over the uneven rocks, combined with the heat, had already summoned sweat that stung her back and chafed her thighs. Mila’s big floppy hat didn’t seem so silly now. It was only morning; the temperature would get worse before it got better, and without cover, her face, ears, and neck would soon burn. The jabuticabas across the way, though menacing, also promised shade. The stream she’d just told herself she wouldn’t dare cross, save an emergency, now gurgled for her to pass. Not to mention, hives could swarm to boulders, but the groves were more plausible.
The stream narrowed in a couple hundred feet. A stone spear carpeted in lichen pierced the width. If she could hold herself steady without slipping, she could jump to the other side.
Naokah tightened the pack, ensuring the blade was secure on her shoulder. She stuck out her boot, testing the midsection of the stone sliver with a bit of pressure. Solid. Holding her arms out on both sides for balance – she’d seen her sister do the same on the raised cloudcane beds – she took her first step.
The rock shifted, but minutely, so she took another step. Her boot slipped on the lichen, and the awkward weight of the pack threw her off balance. She corrected herself, took another quick step, and stabilized. She waited a moment, knees trembling and, though she told herself not to look down, her brain disobeyed. The sun reflected off the dark green water, swinging a blade of blinding white into her eyes. She squinted. She’d made it to the center of the stream. Only ten feet left. She could do this. The water was green, clearish. A straight shot down to a school of minnows. Their scales flashed silver beneath the ripples of currents. Minnows were harmless. Minnows she could deal with.
She took a secure step, then halted.
Something black, coiled, shifted next to her. Her gaze locked on the dark, slithering beast, and she continued. Therein was her mistake. For, if she’d had her eyes on the placement of her foot instead of the creature beside her, she wouldn’t have missed her next step.