by Jean Gill
And why did the mages keep books on so many subjects nobody was allowed to talk about? Who read them? She opened the ledger showing which titles had been checked out and by whom. Very interesting. Rinduran’s reading on wall history and safety in wall visits was unsurprising. But his forays into revolutions and propaganda in ancient times might be of interest to the Council.
Bastien’s taste was for erotic romances. Mielitta’s mouth screwed up in disgust at the thought as she skimmed names that meant little, noted Puggy’s preferred mixture of philosophy, gender politics and make-up tips.
Jannlou’s name caught her attention. She felt almost guilty, prying into someone’s reading habits. But wasn’t that part of a librarian’s job? Perhaps she could start a conversation with mages who visited, recommend books to them, make use of her memory. If, of course, the Citadel calmed enough for simple activities like reading to be popular again. Meanwhile, she would learn what she could about the mages and their apprentices.
Her heart skipped a beat. Forest Predators was not what she’d expected to see checked out to Jannlou, along with Heredity and Magecraft. The latter she could understand being of interest to the Chief Mage’s son but the former was too close to her own secret. A Citadel predator, he was stalking her, and she must be wary. But the book had been checked out before she visited the Forest. Had his magecraft sensed something of the Forest in her before she had?
She shelved that question with the others waiting to be revisited. If Jannlou suspected her true nature, she was in even greater danger but she could not ask Declan for help. She had closed that door. She’d never told him that books and their words entered her mind as she cleaned in the library, so that she knew of life before the Citadel. Such knowledge was meant for mages and she did not want to be banned from the library.
And she had never told him of the harassment from the gang. His intervention would only harm both of them. It was just the same regarding her new powers.
The gang. Bastien, Jannlou, and their new roles. There was something she needed to remember. Another disadvantage of her bee life to be filed: her memory after shifting shape had gaps relating to the events just before it.
She checked the books were straight on the shelf.
Let us work, buzzed her voices.
Why not? There was nobody in the library.
‘Dust the books,’ Mielitta told the bees and soon the shelves were alive with a working hum and a whirr of wings. Her spirits lifted in such company and her own work became satisfying in its rhythm rather than boring. Bees had no concept of boredom and Mielitta had no urge to change their mindset.
Engrossed as she was in cataloguing the books on Macrobiology, Mielitta took a few seconds to notice a change in the working rhythm of some bees on an empty section of shelf. They were crawling round a bee-sized object, covering it in orange goo. When Mielitta looked more closely, she could see a dead bee being wrapped up in orange. She touched it. Sticky. Some of the orange stayed on her finger and she had to rub it off. She stroked a bee working with the orange substance, soothing it, as she looked more closely.
No, not a dead bee. A dead fly. Mielitta had seen flies in the Forest, their whine so different from the hum of bees, so irritating. There had never been a fly or any creature other than humans in the Citadel, dead or alive. Until now. Dogs, cats, rats, mice, spiders, flies, fleas – book words. Citadel society was safe, hygienic, Perfect. So how was there a dead fly in the library? Was it Crimvert who’d breached the Citadel’s defences, guilty as charged of allowing Nature to infiltrate? Or was somebody else responsible. Somebody who’d defiled Perfection with thousands of bees.
The hairs rose on the back of her neck at this new evidence of her treason, even as she instructed the group of bees anxiously disposing of the dead body. ‘Leave it, little ones. I will take care of it.’ Carefully avoiding the bees, she swept the fly to the floor with one finger. Let the floor do its work.
The woodette around the dead fly rippled as it always did when absorbing a snag of fabric, crumb of sustenance or other accidental debris. But this time the ripple hit the fly and froze, forming a hard outline round the small corpse, an outline that grew larger as more ripples hit the previous ones. When the floor gave up its attempt at cleaning, there was a dark accusatory stain around the fly’s orange-wrapped body.
‘What’s in that stuff?’ Mielitta asked, stroking her bee sigil to calm her racing pulse.
Propolis, her inner queen answered. It protects the hive from infection if we cover debris in it. We seal joints with it when we’re building, to keep out rain and secure the walls. It is both medicine and glue.
‘It’s certainly sticky enough.’ Mielitta still had specks of orange on her finger. ‘And looks so weird!’ Worse than weird. The fly’s body was incontrovertible proof that the Forest was in the Citadel and Mielitta did not want the Council of Ten investigating the library.
She tried to pick up the dead fly but it was now firmly enmeshed in the fabric of the floor. A knife or an arrow-point might cut it out, but what if the hole left in the floor caused damage to the magical structure of the Citadel itself? Unthinkable! Far worse than the flaw caused by the dead insect.
She moved a stool to stand over the stain but the dark patch was clearly visible, even from a distance. She took a pile of books and stacked them under the stool, then piled more around them and on top of the stool. There. Unless you knew what you were looking for, you wouldn’t spot the faint shadows rippling through the woodette, outward beyond the stool. Just cataloguing in progress. Nothing unusual.
The subtle change in greylight was enough to alert one Citadel-born to the day’s end. She breathed a sigh of relief and recalled her bees. At last, she could retreat to her own room. She picked up her book on survival in the Forest, to take with her. She wanted to ensure its words and pictures were fully memorised before returning it to its shelf and she should have an hour’s guaranteed solitude, perfect for reading, before she must brave the evening meal in the Great Hall.
She would seek a table in the middle, be invisible among the other women in their gowns and gossip. If she’d fooled Jannlou, she could fool everyone in the Hall. Declan and the Maturity Mages would have sent the necessary messages, announcing her adulthood, to the stewards, archery tutor, teachers, in kitchen and schoolroom, so her absence in her old haunts be expected. Nobody would miss her.
Then she remembered. Drianne. Danger.
Everything came back to her, the whole conversation between Bastien and his father in the library. Now Bastien was Maturity Mage, he had power over Drianne. Mielitta might be safe in her Assistant Librarian disguise but Drianne would suffer twice over. Bastien had said, ‘I could mute her and make her a good citizen.’ And days had gone by since then. What had he done to Drianne?
Chapter Seventeen
In a float of pastel gowns, the ladies settled around Mielitta, who was just one more petal in their midst. The Hall was full to bursting, with barely space to move between tables or elbow room to eat. Squashed between a lemon gown and a rose pink one, she glanced at the back of the Hall, where she used to sit, at the servants’ tables.
Thank the stones! Drianne was sitting there as always. In the first flood of relief, Mielitta wanted to rush to her friend and warn her but, luckily, the cramped seating prevented any spontaneous escape from the bench. Second thoughts reminded her why she could not renew contact with Drianne, for both their sakes. She turned resolutely away from the hunched shoulders of the youngster, the drooping misery, to face the blue gown opposite her. She would watch over Drianne from a distance. The best way to protect her was to keep a close eye on Bastien.
She turned to look at the High Table, which was as full as all the others. The whole of society was in attendance for tonight’s meal and there was a buzz of anticipation. Or apprehension. What events and announcements had Mielitta missed during her evenings in Jannlou’s chamber? It was too late to ask him now. There he was, solid, filling his Apprentice Ma
ge’s robe. Beside him, grey cloth billowed around Bastien’s whip-thin figure, as they both took their places by the minor mages, furthest from the Council Table, furthest from their fathers.
No doubt their mothers were somewhere among the pinks and blues, ladies like herself. If they’d had any magecraft, they’d be mages. Mielitta had never thought about the process by which girls became mages. She had been so sure she lacked magecraft that she’d paid no attention to how those in power gained their positions.
There is no difference between baby workers and baby queens. You didn’t know you were a queen, not a worker. We fed you royal jelly and made you a queen.
Mielitta shushed her voices. Did her bee powers make her a mage? Should she be at the table with Bastien and Jannlou? Their reactions would be quite a picture. But it was a foolish thought. If she had true powers and not a mental illness, the source of her powers was the forbidden Forest and it was treachery she carried, not magecraft.
But she couldn’t help day-dreaming. If she were a mage, she would start off as an Apprentice Mage. She scanned the mage tables. Apart from Bastien and Jannlou, there were no apprentices and they’d been so elevated because of their fathers. She had no such pedigree. And she was a girl.
For the first time, she counted the number of female mages. Two among the Ten Councillors. Five among the thirty lesser mages. Surely, there used to be more? Female mages weren’t allowed to marry, which of course meant they couldn’t have children. If they did, would more girls have magecraft? If she had children, would they have bee powers?
You have thousands of children. They are bees.
Mielitta’s stomach dipped. Mother to thousands. She must be mad but she saw no benefit in fighting her own rambling thoughts. Could you be insane if you knew you were? She drank her purified water, ate her sustenance and yearned for flavours. She wondered what evening light was like in the Forest, whether night was empty black. In the Citadel, the optimised evening light for the interior had a yellowy tinge which was more flattering than daytime grey.
Her morose thoughts were interrupted by a friendly introduction. ‘I’m Hannah.’ The rose-pink gown beside her at table was apparently worn by a person with a name and a smile. Artful brown curls, a complexion and voice to match her dress all contributed to an impression of womanly Perfection.
‘Mielitta,’ she offered, then she realised she’d been abrupt. ‘I’m a new adult,’ she added, then realised how many questions that would provoke, to which she wasn’t keen to give answers. She beamed a Let’s be friends smile, hoping that would divert curiosity.
‘I’m Georgette,’ Lemon gown, opposite Mielitta, introduced herself with a simper. Fuller in face and figure than Hannah, her arched brows suggested permanent surprise.
‘Ninniana,’ said the blue-clad lady sitting beside Georgette. ‘How lovely to meet a newcomer. I’m sure you have lots of stories for us!’ She pronounced each word carefully, as if offering the fruits of her wisdom from a mulberry-dark mouth.
Stones, thought Mielitta as she practised her smile on Georgette and Ninniana, names she shelved instantly under Identical Moss-for-brains.
Hannah’s limpid grey eyes had narrowed and her mouth pursed as she inspected her table-mate. ‘You’re older than–’ she began but her words were lost in the growing murmur around the hall.
There was a bustle of activity at the High Table and the general hubbub stilled as Magaram stood up to speak. This in itself was unusual as announcements were usually delegated to lesser mages.
‘My people, I know you are worried. In your chamber at night, you wake and wonder whether you are still safe, whether the wards that protect you could be broken, whether something could break the floor spells and come from under the bed, like a strand of evil hair, seeking the heat of your body, circling your throat, tightening…’
Hannah shuddered and another instinctively put a hand to her throat, brushing away an invisible hair.
With the High Table’s speechcraft, all mages could address the Hall without any effort, reaching the furthest corners, so everybody jumped when Magaram shouted, ‘You are right! Evil is here among us!’ He flung out one arm and the sleeve of his robe dropped back as he pointed, accusing.
Mielitta had jumped too and felt everyone’s eyes on her. Did her guilt show on her face? A dead fly. Floor magecraft broken. And secret bees. She risked a glance across the table. Georgette was flushed, looking down and Ninniana was gazing wildly around, neither of them paying any particular attention to Mielitta.
Still she felt that finger pointing at her, those blue eyes piercing her buzzing black heart, condemning her. Her hands were clammy with sweat and she clenched them under the table, her heart pounding.
The stare was familiar and the last time she’d endured it, the Mage had been as close as the blue gown was now. Jannlou. Glamour, she reminded herself. If the son had the power to charm her, how much more power over people’s feelings did the father have! Well, he’d picked the wrong citizen. She’d protected her feelings against Jannlou’s charisma often enough and she could do likewise against Magaram.
The Chief Mage’s voice regained its calm authority. ‘We will keep you safe from the evil without but we need your help with the evil within.’ In case the message wasn’t clear enough, he continued softly, ‘The evil inside you, inside the person sitting beside you, inside our community. The evil that comes from forgetting who we are.’
All the mages were standing, facing the hall, in a show of black-robed solidarity. Magaram waved a hand in their direction. ‘We never forget. We endure hours, days, years in the walls’ memories to preserve our society. We are the force of law and order against the forces of chaos. We dedicate our lives to you and some of you have forgotten why. We know who you are and you cannot hide from Shenagra.’
On hearing her name, Shenagra nodded as if receiving instructions and stepped down from the dais. As she walked between tables, seated diners shrank back to allow her to pass. Her hair writhed, as if sniffing out traitors. When she stopped beside a table, everybody sitting there froze, moving only when she’d moved on. As she followed her path round the room, then paced it again, so that none could think they were safe now, Magaram continued:
‘Our blessed ancestors recorded their sufferings so that we may live safe, Perfect lives.’ His voice blasted again. ‘Will we shit on their wisdom?’ The crudeness shocked as much as the volume. ‘Some here think they know better.’
He’d said they. He didn’t know it was her. He was bluffing. Mielitta tried to blank out her thoughts as Shenagra stalked between the tables, scenting.
Deliberately, Magaram repeated, ‘Some here are shitting on our ancestors’ wisdom. And I will tell you the suffering this has caused. Stand up if there is an empty place to your left at table.’
Reluctantly, afraid of what would happen to them, one person after another stood up in the Hall until there were eleven of them so exposed. The seats were so crammed, Mielitta wasn’t sure she’d have noticed an empty place but she wasn’t going to volunteer, regardless.
‘One, two…’ Magaram pointed at each quivering citizen in turn, counting aloud. ‘Eleven. That’s eleven of our people missing from the evening meal today. Did you wonder where they were? Some of you know all too well.’ Stifled sobs could be heard from two of the tables with empty seats.
‘Eleven people, who were loved, who had family and friends, eleven people have died in the last four days because of the traitors. Eleven people grew sick from the allergies we protect you from and they died! Nobody here need face the wildness of Nature and its deadly consequences. No cancer, no diseases, no stings, no bites, no food poisoning and no allergies! The Citadel is safe for all! But traitors want to murder us in our beds, spoil our happiness, end sustainability! We won’t allow it! Will you? Will you allow it?’
Mechanically, Mielitta joined in the shout of ‘We won’t allow it!’ while she waited for the questing hair to find her. Had Magaram’s choice of nightmare imager
y been deliberate? If she survived, Mielitta for one would be checking under her bed for any change in the floor. Another pang of guilt as she thought of what she’d done to the library floor.
‘This one,’ declared Shenagra, amplifying her voice as she sent tendrils of hair out to a brown-clad man at the table beside Mielitta.
‘Have you harboured thoughts of discontent? That there must be more to life? That you would like to see outside the Citadel?
‘Yes,’ he whispered, while those around him shrank back in case his thoughts were contagious. ‘Forgive me.’ His voice shook.
‘You are forgiven. And punished. May you serve as an example.’ Shenagra’s braids uncoiled, reached into the man, who stood stoically, accepting his sentence. Mielitta looked away but she could hear the gasps around her. The details she imagined were worse than if she’d watched. She’d seen what happened to Crimvert.
She slipped her arrowhead up from her bodice, smoothed it, let the patterns give her courage. Steelwing. And she waited her turn.
The next person accused tried to run. His screams were barely audible above the roar of the crowd. In the resultant mêlée it was unclear whether he was trampled to death by enthusiastic citizens or executed by Shenagra.
The five subsequent traitors learned that lesson and died peacefully, forgiven for their sins.
Mielitta felt sick. This was her fault. She’d introduced pestilence into the Citadel, killed eleven fragile souls who’d been safe before ‘wild Nature’ found them. She should confess, accept her fate and stop Shenagra executing more people.
No, the voices told her but they could only tell her she was the Queen, too important, and that was not enough for her conscience. As she opened her mouth to proclaim her guilt, she felt somebody staring at her. Blue eyes piercing her buzzing black heart. But not Magaram’s eyes.