by Bowes, K T
I turned onto my side and pushed the edges of the sheet into the narrow gap between mattress and wall, my fingers moving quickly as I settled into position. I waved my arm behind me to indicate he should go away. The mattress spring lay flat with its fellows, but another unexpected lump made one side higher than the other at the end. I stilled, realising my error.
“But you bested the Master.” Sorrel’s voice held wonder. “Show me how.”
Shaking my head, I buried my face in my arm and tensed when Sorrel’s gentle fingers touched my shoulder. “I think perhaps he is harder on you because he loves you more. I can’t earn his affection, no matter how hard I try.” His tone sounded leaden. When I turned, I saw his chest hollowed by the sad stoop of his shoulders. I sat up, shaking my head with vehemence, wanting to tell him he was wrong but unable to project the words. “Limah is not my father,” I mouthed. He didn’t believe me and envy glittered in his eyes. My movement caused the sword buried beneath the mattress to clunk against the wooden pallet. Sorrel’s brow quirked upward and his head spun. “Don’t quit, Este!” he gasped, misunderstanding. Candle wax dripped onto the sandy floor as he leaned sideways to push his fingers beneath the raggedy cloth. The sound of fabric popping and metal edges touching created a cacophony of noise as he tilted the blade during its exit and it wreaked havoc on the mattress. He produced my sword from its accidental hiding place with a flourish of satisfaction, slicing the air and spilling candle wax onto his sleeve. “I like this sword,” he announced. “I wonder who the Master borrowed it from. Let’s call it the Bee Queen’s Champion, because you sent Limah to his knees with it.”
A dull thud hit my chest, knocking the wind from my lungs. The words corkscrewed into the empty space in my soul and the calling sensation revived. I bent double with the shock of its force and gulped for air as Sorrel stared at me in astonishment. “Este, what is it?” he whispered, his face creasing into anguished lines as my stricken body curled inward and I fell sideways on the bed. I saw him stare at the sword as though blaming it for my predicament before dropping it into the sand. The blackness which stole my voice seemed to rise up around me, threatening to take more of me into its greedy maw. A cackling laugh at its centre sounded familiar, echoing through the empty halls of my mind. The languid buzz of bee-wings accompanied it and I gasped. The drone hung near my physical face, the honeyed ochre of his thorax shining in the light of the candle. Bracken dipped once and then lifted into the air, the gentle buzz of his wings drifting away towards the open door. Drone and failed counselor, he had become a spy. But where did his allegiance rest?
Sorrel swatted at the drone and then dropped to his knees next to me. His urgent shaking of my shoulder caused a nauseating rocking motion which reminded me of the Forlornn ship. Covering my ears with my hands, I screwed myself into a tighter ball and imagined myself safe in Sonora’s best queen cup. I willed myself far away from Limah’s caverns and the insurmountable task I’d foolishly adopted. The sword’s call erupted in my soul and filled my head, desperate and renewed. It knew its name and now, so did I.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Truths
Limah rescued me, as always. He appeared in the doorway as Sorrel began screeching in panic at my silent tears and trembling body. The ready chastisement at our abandoning of his lesson, died on Limah’s lips as he surveyed the candle burning sideways in the sand and the huddle of my shape on the mattress.
“What happened?” he demanded, his tone severe.
Sorrel backed away at speed, sending the candle skittering sideways and plunging the room into darkness. Limah huffed in exasperation and dispatched him to light more, dropping to his haunches next to me. The mattress dipped as he changed position and sat near my head. If he noticed the lack of the spring biting into his backside, he didn’t say. “Este,” he whispered. “Poor Este.”
My teeth clattered together at the spasms riding my body and Limah uncurled me, pulling me onto his knee. He folded me into his chest, blotting out Sorrel’s curses as the boy struggled to relight the candle from the flame in the fireplace. Back and forth Limah rocked me, in arms which rescued me from risky childhood pursuits I could no longer count and dangers I could not imagine. His embrace reached around me in the physical but its effects warmed my soul, offering a belated appreciation of his unending care in the face of childish ingratitude. I pressed my face into his taut chest, the wiry hairs on its surface peeking through the button holes and tickling my nose. His voice rumbled and echoed in my ear as he spoke to Sorrel, his deep tones even and capable. “Fetch some fresh water for Este. Take it straight from the pump in the kitchens. The water here is for washing only.”
Sorrel’s steps clattered against the ground with dull thuds as he ran. A lighted candle flared to life on a cabinet as he abandoned it to its holder. His exit left silence and Limah’s fingers created a smoothing sound against my shirt as they stroked my back. His voice lowered to a whisper and he kissed the top of my head. “Embrace the darkness in your heart, Estefania Melitto. For that is where you will find your true nature. Only you can battle it and win. Expose it to the light and it will flee.”
I squeezed my eyes tight shut and contemplated his words. The effort of conveying Sorrel’s name for the sword and the appearance of the drone wore me out before I even tried. I folded my legs beneath me on his lap and breathed in his scent of hyacinth and forest pine. Peace enveloped me and his rocking motion continued as hands with a gentle touch caressed the knots of my spine.
Sorrel’s reappearance was accompanied by a dramatic trip and a dousing of cold water. Limah roared in temper and I shot upright, banging my crown on the underside of his jaw. An angry glance at Sorrel revealed the emerald flash of jealousy in his irises and I suspected he did it on purpose.
“Out!” Limah snarled, pointing at the door with one hand whilst wiping his forehead with the other. The boy’s footsteps pattered across the floor and the door slammed against the frame in his wake. “Foolish waif!” Limah used his cuff to wipe the drips from his eyes and followed up with pats to the top of my head. He succeeded in pushing the drips through my curls to cool my scalp.
Sitting up, I ran a thumb over his bristled chin and winced to convey my apology. He shook it off and gave me a push on the arm to tip me off his lap. Embarrassment shrouded him and he glanced towards the door, as though expecting Hosta to barrel in and rebuke him for his show of favouritism. Her resentment showed in the terse treatment she gave me each night, a poignant silence surrounding every interaction. She’d kept Lily away too, a fact which irked me more.
I sat on the mattress with a sigh and the metal object shifted in my pocket. Knowledge of its existence warmed me in a way only secrecy could. It reminded me of the budding sense of excitement proceeding Galveston’s visits to the island. The shine diminished. It occurred to me that my deviancy may prove my eventual undoing. My lips parted to confess to Limah but the effort evaded me. I could have mimed it, but chose not to for reasons my conflicted mind could not lay hold of. Instead, I felt the smooth hardness of the round metal against my thigh and forced my countenance into a blank, expressionless mask.
Limah paced the room with his hands behind his back. He dipped once to set the lighted candle on top of its cabinet and again to stoke the dying fire. I sensed him bursting with the need to tell me something but he resisted, as though the words evaded him. When he left without speaking, disappointment clothed my soul in a darkness blacker than I imagined. Temper threw me back against the mattress and the sword clattered onto the floor.
The pieces worked together in my mind, seeking to cohere into a picture I couldn’t yet see. I lay my right palm over my chest and mouthed the words which felled me, no sound escaping to betray the waver in my natural voice. “The Bee Queen’s Champion.” Sorrel uttered the name in jest, believing like everyone else that I would become queen of this sorry hive. The screech of an unsheathed blade rang in my ears as my lips formed the words and my soul clenched. The call began its insi
stent pull as a sword somewhere summoned my presence. I knew its distinctive sound and could picture every scuff and dent of its beaten surface. I squeezed my eyes closed with the effort of visualising the hand which wielded it and saw only blurred outlines.
Squatting on the floor, I hauled the borrowed sword from its resting place, wincing at the popping fabric reacting to the side of the blade as it contacted the mattress. The hilt felt cool to the touch and I closed my eyes and held it out in front of me, keeping it balanced and even as though testing my grip. My breathing slowed and I explored the call in my chest with shuttered eyelids, seeking to discover more of the Bee Queen’s Champion. The muscles in my right arm dipped as though the new sword was heavier and the hilt beneath my palm scored a pattern into my skin. The press of the tired leather grip disappeared, replaced by the glint of tempered iron and steel decorated with an intricate series of marks. It felt right. My wrist flicked in an easy arc, drawing the sword into a lazy figure of eight and testing its weight. Weeks ago, the thing would have bowed my wrist, but exercise and Limah’s relentless training gave me more strength than I realised. Great sadness flooded through my wrist and into my elbow, upsetting the bees in my left arm as the chill of misery stole across my shoulder and into my chest. Silent while I trained under the Master’s tutelage, they reacted to the influx of emotion by sending a sensation of tiny needle pricks to wake my mind.
Jerking upright, I opened my eyes and saw only the borrowed sword dipping towards the sand as the muscles in my arm gave in to gravity. The illusion of the Champion abandoned me, but the residue of its pain did not. It ailed in the place it called from, its essence eking away with every passing hour.
The blade of the borrowed sword thudded against the sand as I rose, its lackluster sheen insulting to the hours I spent sharpening and polishing it. I sheathed it with a clang and hoped it would suffice. In that moment, it was the only weapon I had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Exit Strategy
I planned to leave soon, halted only by my desire to go better equipped than the last time. Dreams of the sword invaded my sleep hours and occupied my waking moments. My battle skills improved as I visualised the battered, dented blade replaced by the Champion’s sharp edges and glittering hilt. At one with its increased weight and the flexibility of its tempered blade, I moved with grace and elegance as Limah coerced the colony’s guard to spar with me. One at a time I dispatched them, sensing their growing hatred as they landed face first in the dust of the food hall’s sandy floor. I bettered Sorrel, moving beyond his nimble-footed advantages to send him sprawling with a well-timed kick to the stomach as he staggered beneath a perfected Zwerchhau. The Crosswise Strike never failed to widen his eyes in alarm, as though he believed I might really intend him harm.
When Limah seated himself on the top of a table and rested his feet on a nearby bench, I sensed he knew my secret. Four days had passed since the sword renewed its call, interspersed by four exhausting nights of imagined battle as my eyelids fluttered and my toes twitched in sleep. He ran a scarred hand over his bristled chin and offered me a gentle smile. I sensed extreme sadness in the bow of his shoulders and knew it was time. “Enough for today,” he said, rising with a tired movement. He waved the remaining guard back to her post at the entrance and jerked his head toward Sorrel. “Estefania Melitto wishes to leave tomorrow.” His tone sounded brusque as he attempted to mask his sadness. “She is not the queen of this colony, boy.”
“But she is!” Sorrel’s instant protest made my heart clench. “Everyone says she is!”
“Then they’re mistaken.” Limah’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and he avoided my gaze. “I’ve equipped you, boy. Do you wish to leave with her?”
“Where are you going?” Sorrel’s eyes widened as he read the doubt in my face. “You don’t know, Este. Just like last time.” His shoulders slumped and I saw conflict in the dark hollows of his eye sockets.
“Last time?” Limah cocked his head and his astute gaze searched our faces, his features sharpening beneath the ragged scar. “Explain what you mean.” A pointed index finger sought Sorrel’s confession as the boy’s lips turned to nervous babbling.
“We hid from my stepfather and ran from the village.” He patted his chest. “She obeyed a pain in her heart and it led us onward until you appeared.” Sorrel’s cheeks bloomed with shame. “When we ran from you and the bees, she wished to return to you.” My jaw gaped wide in indignation, for I know I said no such thing. Hope surged in Limah’s face, imbuing him with the beauty I’d seen in his simile. He took a step towards me.
“You saw the bees?” His eyes lit up as I backed away. Shaking fingers tapped the gap in his shirt where the hair poked through. “You felt them, Este? You connected with them, but perhaps didn’t realise what the thread represented.” Two more strides brought him before me and I cringed at the excitement in his face. Sorrel jumped in horror as the warrior dropped to his knees in front of me and clasped my hands in his. “I counselled as you asked, my Queen. I’ve obeyed you though it cost me to do so. You can wield arms like no matriarch before you because of my teaching and still you resist your calling.” He stared up into my face and I witnessed his inner agony through the dark pools of his irises. “These are your people, Estefania Melitto. You are their queen.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head from side to side, sadness drooping my shoulders as the borrowed sword clanked at my thigh. My hands sought his face, stroking his cheeks through the rough bristles and letting my fingers coast over the scar shaped by a Wasp blade. Leaning down, I placed a kiss over the knitted ridge of skin, hoping he understood my gratitude and the sum of my adoration. The giddy, girlish crush of my childhood gave way to a rush of pure love and the absence of pique or arrogance took me by surprise. I owed him everything. Placing my left hand on the top of his head, I squatted down to write my message in the dirt. Freed once, I trusted him not to repeat his error of settling for servitude.
I rose and made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Anguish raged within his soul and communicated it to mine through a delicate thread I had not known existed. Drowned out by other noise and activity, it held fast like fishing line, invisible but strong. “Thank you for everything,” I mouthed as tears welled in pools behind my eyes. “You deserved better.” My palm stroked the crown of his head as I removed my hand.
Open mouthed, Sorrel paused to watch as I yanked the door open, his gaze transfixed by Limah’s devastation. My faithful bodyguard of sixteen years knelt in the dirt, his shoulders hunched and his shirt tails hanging loose. Dark curls tumbled over his forehead as he dipped forward to touch my final message, expunging the words as he lifted the sand and watching it fall from his open palm. Do not follow, it said. I no longer need you.
I fled then, severing the emotional connection between us and hoping his freedom brought everything his life had lacked. A wife. Children. A cottage in a wide forest clearing with a hive and a few gentle bees. I wished him all the joy and comfort I sensed I would never have.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Hungry Follower
I admit I felt surprised at Sorrel’s choice to follow. His quest for comfort dictated he should stay in the colony’s embrace. I did nothing to discourage his allegiance as I ran to my chamber and snatched up supplies for the journey. But I drew the line at his constant whining.
“You don’t know where you’re going!” he complained. “Again!”
“Then don’t come!” I mouthed back. I jabbed at his hip and the sword hanging there, waiting until he looked up at my face. “Join the guard and protect the people you love so much.” I formed the words so he couldn’t miss their meaning.
Sorrel shifted from foot to foot, unease in the tilt of his head. “I must come,” he whispered. “You rescued me from my stepfather and offered me hope.”
I ignored him, snatching up the ready cloth bag and slinging it sideways across my body. The handle pulled tight against my neck, laden with food held back
from my rations. Sorrel’s eyes widened. “Hosta searched everywhere for that,” he whispered. “She made it from a flour sack.”
I pursed my lips and continued stuffing it with last minute items. My dislike for Hosta made the frisson of guilt easy to dismiss. I moved a burning candle from the top of the clothes cabinet and set it on the ground before hauling out each of the drawers. Sorrel watched as I hefted the frame away from the rocky wall, leaving it slewed across the floor. “What are you doing?” he demanded, stepping closer as I dug through the sand to find the round metal object I’d hidden there. My fingers contacted its smooth surface and I plucked it free, satisfaction and relief forcing a sigh from my lungs.
“What’s that?” Sorrel observed through hooded eyes, suspicion in his face. His brow furrowed. “You stole that from Limah!”
I rose, turning the object over in my palm. It felt familiar though hours of studying it gave me no clue of its purpose. Jabbing an index finger toward the mattress, I indicated where I found it and saw Sorrel’s head jerk back in surprise. “Limah has one. Is it his?”
“No.” I mouthed the word and shook my head. No guile entered my expression and I saw that Sorrel believed me.
“Another one then.” He nodded. “It’s a path-delineator, Este. Limah used his to find his way home after delivering honey to the village last year. I hid to avoid sweeping the baker’s chimney and followed him a little way. He kept it in his pocket and checked it often. I made up the name for it though. I’m sure it has something better.” Sorrel licked his lips and I watched conflict bud in his eyes. His voice acquired a wheedling tone. “Clover promised to bake a mushroom as big as my head for dinner. I don’t want to feel hungry like before, Este. The pains just stopped and I’m loath to let them start again.” He rubbed his stomach and I pitied him. While I grew lean and fit on reduced rations and squirrelled away the excess, Sorrel filled the yawning chasm in his face at every meal to satiate the fear of having nothing. I suspected he might betray me for a tray of baked mushrooms.