by Jeff Wheeler
Her father was a good storyteller, with a baritone voice that was just a little too soft, forcing her to lean forward to catch every word. His gray thatch of hair showed his age, which always made Rista secretly sad, but his hazel eyes twinkled as he leaned forward, a little smile making his lips crooked.
“We had traveled four days to reach Battle Mountain,” he confided, “after crossing the Arvadin. Four days of serpents. Four days of kobold raids at night.”
“Not Twig!” little Camille said indignantly. “He couldn’t hurt anyone!”
At the mention of his name, a little kobold no taller than a strutting rooster peeked his head around Father’s back. He was small, even for a kobold, and he blinked at Camille and skittered into her lap, then around her back, and finally rested his lizard-like snout on her shoulder, making her giggle in hysterics.
Rista wanted to swat him down for ruining the story. “Shhh!” she scolded. “Let Father tell the story! Twig, get down!”
The kobold blinked at her, his little shoulder wilting at the rebuke, and then he curled up in Camille’s lap while she stroked his knobby horns. Little Twig had joined Father’s adventure all those years ago and had not grown an ounce bigger in all those years. He was the runtiest little excuse of a monster. The only reason he had survived so long was because he was cowardly in the extreme, jittery as a squirrel, and clever enough not to fight anything bigger than her little brother, Adam.
“As I was saying,” Father went on patiently, his eyes twinkling, “we reached Battle Mountain. It’s a desolate land, full of jagged rocks and scrub. Not a single tree. The peak comes out of the middle of the flatlands. It’s huge.”
“Are there any bees then?” piped in Brand, the second oldest, who would be leaving with Father in the morning to move the hives.
“Sshhh!” Rista hissed impatiently.
“There are bees in that forsaken land,” her father said, giving Rista a subtle hand gesture to try to calm her down. She hated such interruptions. “Carpenter bees. The big black fat ones. Practically the size of hummingbirds.”
A chorus of shivers went through the siblings, including Rista. She was the Beesinger’s daughter, and had grown up loving bees of all sorts—except the nasty black carpenter bees. She wasn’t afraid of bumblebees, yellow jackets, honeybees, wasps, or hornets. But the giant bees had terrified her as a child, and now that she was seventeen, she wondered if she would ever conquer her fear of them in order to become a true Beesinger herself.
“When we reached Battle Mountain, the fortress of the Ziggurat dominated the base of the rocks. I’ve never seen something so big, yes—even bigger than King Malcolm’s palace! The kobolds had been working on it for centuries, driven by their slave master. Now, how could we get in without being seen?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“Twig could get in,” Camille said proudly, and the little kobold lifted his head from her lap with a toothy grin and a little purring noise.
“But that was before I found Twig,” her father said, wagging his finger. “The Ziggurat was built above caves in the mountain. So we searched the base behind it, looking for another way in. That was before the king’s army arrived. Well, I found a little cave—a small one that Twig could fit through, but so could I.” He patted his own belly. “I was thinner back then. I crawled on my stomach to see how far it went. It was so dirty and dusty, I could hardly breathe or see, and it was full of cobwebs.” He used his arms and hands to gesture the words as he spoke. “I used my cudgel to clear some away and then scoot in a little farther.” He paused, eyes twinkling again, and Rista felt the shivers already starting to go up her back.
“I had a piece of magic, given to me from the Enclave. It’s that small clear stone full of borrowed light. I’ve shown it to some of you before. It was so dark I couldn’t see well, so I reached into my pocket, opened the pouch that hides the light, and pulled it out.” He mimicked the action, withdrew the small oval stone, and then opened his palm. The clear stone began to glow dimly. The light had been much brighter when Rista was young. The magic in it was fading. “That’s when I saw the spiders,” he added softly and with a wicked grin. “Black widows—everywhere. I’d crawled into the middle of their nest.”
Rista hated spiders, especially black widows. She saw the faces of her siblings twist with disgust and fear. Twig suddenly leaped from Camille’s lap and skittered around the hearth with his usual disruptive antics.
“Twig!” Rista complained while her siblings giggled. The tiny kobold scrabbled up the Beesinger’s arm, up his shoulder, then down his front before nestling on Father’s lap. He stared at the light from the crystal as it began to fade, his red-orange glassy eyes shimmering with the light. His long snout of teeth grinned at it. Rista loved the little monster—even though she sometimes called the kobold a little runt in front of her siblings and friends. Twig could be very exasperating on occasion.
“What did you do?” Camille asked fearfully. The freckles on her nose crinkled. “I would have screamed!”
“I’ll tell you that story . . . when I get back,” Father said. “Tomorrow morning Brand and I are taking hives to Apple Hill. Rista is going to take care of you.” He gave her an affectionate smile and gently rubbed the knobs on Twig’s head.
“Maybe you should take Twig with you for protection?” Rista suggested jokingly.
“No, Twig’s your protector!” Father said, rubbing the kobold’s bony back. Twig’s snout spread into a wide, crookedly toothy grin. The kobold loved being praised, even if it was unearned. He hissed something in his guttural language.
“And what will he protect us from?” Rista taunted. “Mice?”
Father didn’t reply to her insult. He was a patient man. He had been sadder since mother had passed away bearing the twin boys. But Rista had never tried coaxing him into marrying again, and he’d never shown any interest, saying his hands were full with twenty hives, five children, and an energetic kobold. He was about the plainest, most ordinary man you’d find anywhere in the kingdom. He never boasted of his accomplishments. And he never talked about how he’d defeated the Overlord of Battle Mountain. He—a simple Beesinger.
* * *
Rista was up when Father and Brand were ready to leave. They had loaded four hives onto a wagon the day before and were going to head out while the hives were still asleep. Because of her father’s innate magic, he could calm the most ferocious swarms and was occasionally called upon to do so throughout the kingdom. He was up before dawn every day, tending to the small farm and capturing honey from the hives, which was sold to a merchant down the hill and distributed to the farthest reaches of the kingdom. The merchant earned most of the profits, which Rista thought was unfair since he leveraged Father’s reputation. A Beesinger’s honey was said to be the best, and her father was the most famous Beesinger of all. But he refused to profit from reputation rather than his own hard work and didn’t care that he made other men rich.
She found him in the yard with his cutting axe resting against a spoke, rubbing fronds of mint on his hands while Brand checked the axles and the horse tack. She walked up to her father, hugging a warm shawl to her shoulders.
“It’s two days to Apple Hill, two days back, and four days of letting the bees do all the work,” Rista said. “Do I spy your fishing poles back there?”
Her father grinned. “Yes, Brand packed those just in case there’s time.” He smiled at her and then opened his arms for a hug. He smelled so strongly of mint that it made her smile. He was strong, sturdy, and boring. But he gave the best hugs.
“You have plenty of food,” he said, pulling away and then tugging on her blond braid. “My sister Natalie said she’d cook if you get tired of it.”
“I can cook,” Rista said, a little offended. She sighed, cursing herself. Part of her wished that Brand were staying behind and she were going with him. The farm was dull, and she could use a change of scenery. She’d love to go down the hill to the village, but she couldn’t leave Camil
le in charge of the twins, even though she was almost twelve. It was Rista’s duty, as the eldest, to look after the others. At least Aunt Natalie lived close enough.
“You’re a good cook, Rista,” Father said, tipping her chin and then kissing the top of her hair. “We’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll miss you, Father,” Rista said, giving him another squeeze. “Be careful.”
He was the most careful person in the world. He nodded to her and grabbed his axe, which often served as an alpenstock while he walked. “Watch after things, Twig,” he said with an important voice. “You’re in charge of protecting Rista. I think I spied some field mice on the western fence. Make sure you set up a patrol.”
The kobold was lounging on the porch and yawned lazily and then set his snout back down on his arms. He made a few uncommitted clicking noises and then closed his lantern-like eyes.
“The wagon is ready, Father,” Brand said, holding the lead rope.
“Thank you, Son. Good work.” They mounted the box, and soon the wagon lumbered away. Rista folded her arms and hugged herself, watching it go and realizing that the next fortnight would be unendurably boring. Nothing exciting ever happened.
That was true for the first day.
* * *
It was nearing sunset the following day when Twig came skittering through the window of the cabin in an absolute terrified panic. He was clicking and growling so fast and hard that, even struggling, Rista couldn’t make out his words at all, though she could usually understand him if she tried.
“What is he saying, Camille?” Rista asked, setting plates on the table and feeling a little impatient. “Is there a skunk nearby?”
Camille was probably Twig’s next favorite, and he scampered up her leg and gesticulated with his bony little arms and pointed to the door urgently.
“No,” Camille said, her face suddenly worried. “He saw a bear coming.”
Rista’s stomach dropped. “Of course. A bear! It had to come the day after Father left. What kind of bear was it? A black bear?”
Camille made a series of grunts and clicks. Twig understood the speech of humans, and Rista refused to speak to him in his own language. But Camille had taught herself and was quick to understand what Twig meant.
“I think it’s a grizzly,” she said worriedly.
Rista frowned, suddenly worried. “Adam, Ben. Bar the windows. Camille, bar the door. It’ll be after the hives, no doubt. Why did it have to come now?” The children were quick to obey her. It was unusual for a bear to wander this far down the Arvadin Mountains, but it had happened before. However, Father had always been there, and he knew what to do in such times. He had a longbow and arrows as a final resort, which Rista wasn’t strong enough to use. But it was his magic that allowed him to summon the bees themselves to frighten away unwanted visitors. The cabin was secured quickly and she felt her nerves starting to calm. She reached out with her senses, trying to see if the bees were aware of the danger yet. But they were all back in the hive by this late hour. They wouldn’t know about the danger until the claws arrived. Bears were drawn to honey, and she hoped the beast didn’t wreck too many hives to satisfy its cravings.
With the windows shut, it was dark inside, so she quickly trimmed the wick of an oil lamp and lit it. The children clustered around her, and she did her best to soothe them, putting on an air of confidence. It was inconvenient but not truly dangerous.
Then she heard the bear snuffling near the door of the cabin and felt Camille suddenly squeeze her waist, her eyes wide with terror, her freckles twitching. The twins were silent, staring at the small gap beneath the door.
“It’s all right,” Rista soothed. “It can’t get in.”
Suddenly a hard knock sounded at the door, jolting them all. Camille shrieked and started to whimper. Twig began running around in circles frantically and then cowered behind the flour barrel. Rista’s heart was shuddering in her chest, but she was a clever girl. Bears did not knock.
She gestured for Camille to take the twins to the loft ladder as she walked forward. “Wh-who is it?” Rista asked, angered by the tremor in her voice.
“Ilias.”
At the sound of the man’s voice, her fear suddenly vanished, replaced by intense and immediate relief. This changed everything! Ilias was from the Enclave, he was the wandering protector of the valley, advisor of the king, and he was an Eyriemaester. His creature, an enormous gold eagle, could often be seen flying over the valley and keeping watch over the kingdom.
Rista lifted the crossbar from the door and hurriedly opened it. The man standing in the doorway filled it and still had to stoop. He looked young, like a man in his midthirties, but he was a being who was over a thousand years old. One did not age living in the Enclave. In fact, the aging process reversed until a person was in the prime. He was clean-shaven with wavy bronze hair and piercing blue eyes. Rista hadn’t seen him since she was six, and he had seemed like a giant back then. Surprisingly, he was even taller now. He wore an impressive tunic with a leather band across his chest, holding back a dark cloak. She noted a wide bulky satchel hanging from the band as he looked at her with concern and worry.
“Hello, Rista,” he said, his voice calming. “Where is your father?” He gazed around the interior of the cabin, searching quickly.
“He’s . . . he’s gone to Apple Hill,” Rista stammered. “What’s wrong?”
Ilias frowned. Then he looked back and made a gesture. Ilias had not come alone, and Rista’s heart hammered with excitement. “Inside, quickly,” Ilias beckoned.
“There’s a bear,” Rista warned.
Ilias smiled and chuckled. “The bear is with us. It’ll guard the farm while we talk. This is Lielle of the Enclave,” he said, gesturing to the woman who entered next. Rista stared at her in shock and surprise. She was the most beautiful woman Rista had ever seen. She had red hair that was braided back and she entered with a sculpted bow and an arrow already nocked. Her skin was flawless, showing her to be of the Enclave as well. Rista had never met her before, but she had heard her father tell of Lielle and her fox. She was the best hunter in the valley. Rista had suspected that her father had, long ago, secretly cared for her. But Father had never revealed his true feelings to his daughter, keeping them sealed like a walnut hull. The other man who came, she did not recognize, but he was nearer to her age, and so Rista did not think he was part of the Enclave.
“This is Gabe Doer,” Ilias said, and Rista blinked in surprise.
“You’re the son of King Malcolm Doer,” Rista said, impressed. He was the king’s youngest.
Gabe looked at her, wrinkling his brow, and cast his eyes around the small cabin as if it were a pitiful thing. “We can’t stay long, Ilias. They’ll track us here.”
“I know, I’ll be brief,” the Eyriemaester said. “Lielle. The door.” The redheaded girl secured it and then went to a window and unbolted it, again preparing her bow to shoot.
“You are in great danger, Rista,” Ilias said urgently, putting his strong hand on her shoulder. “We travel at night to avoid being seen in the day. Something stirs in Battle Mountain. I must find your father. Where is he?”
Rista’s heart churned with excitement. “What is it, Ilias?”
He shook his head. “Best if you don’t know. Is there a place you can go for shelter? The village perhaps? They will track us here.”
“Who?” Rista asked eagerly. Her heart was hammering, but she felt part of her coming alive as if for the first time. Was her magic awakening at last?
“I cannot say and it would be better if you didn’t know. You said your father went to Apple Hill? When did he leave?”
“I see something,” Lielle said from the window. “It was just a shadow.”
Suddenly the roar of a bear came from outside. Lielle drew back the bowstring and sent an arrow into the burgeoning dark. “Got it.”
Gabe was looking at Ilias fretfully. “We can’t stay here, Ilias! We don’t have time!”
The Eyriemaester let out a deep breath. Then he looked into Rista’s eyes. “Do you have the magic, child? Are you truly a Beesinger’s daughter?”
Her heart leaped. “I do have it,” she said eagerly. “I’ve not fully . . . not fully mastered it yet. But I can calm or summon a swarm like my father can. You are returning to Battle Mountain? You needed my father, but could I come instead?”
Ilias gave her a look that was impressed. “How old are you, Rista? The last time I saw you, you were . . . ?”
“I was only six. I’m seventeen now. If you need Beesinger magic, then bring me with you!”
Gabe scrunched up his face. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid,” Rista huffed, glaring at the young man. “My aunt lives nearby. Twig can take my siblings there, and then she can take them to warn the village in the morning.”
Ilias looked to Lielle and then back at Rista. “I’d almost forgotten about little Twig,” he said with a humorous chuckle. Rista pointed to the flour barrel and saw the little kobold trembling.
“Your father is the one I hoped to find, Rista,” Ilias said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Since the Great War, the Ziggurat has been left desolate. But something stirs within. An evil that begins to summon creatures into its service. I thought your father had destroyed the Overlord. But it may have only been asleep. Will you come with us, Beesinger? Yours is a subtle magic. And subtlety is what we need most.”
Rista could not refrain from grinning. “Of course I will come with you,” she said. “Twig, take Camille and the boys to Aunt Natalie’s cabin.” She was so excited she could hardly contain herself. “You said we must travel at night?”
Ilias nodded approvingly. “You have your father’s courage. I will do all in my power to protect you from harm. Gabe, tell Damon Papenfuss we’re leaving. We may have to fight our way clear. Lielle, make sure these children make it safely to their aunt’s.”
