The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

  Hardknot entered the Daylight Hall, his footsteps echoing from the walls, high balconies and distant ceiling. Several cleaning drollups slept silently in the far corner of the hall, huddled together like sheep in a snowstorm. They remained undisturbed as Hardknot strode across the rosewood floor towards the King’s Private Bedroom.

  A single scented glowick lit the large room and it took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. He saw one the King’s nursekeepers, Annie Rubetter, sitting in a chair close to the large six-poster bed and moved towards her. She saw his approach and stood to greet him.

  ‘How is His Lightness?’ he whispered.

  ‘I administered the soporific, Your Oneness,’ she replied softly. ‘He remains in a deep sleep.’

  Their eyes met within the soft light from the flame. Hardknot moved forward until his mouth reached hers. They kissed slowly and soundlessly.

  ‘It will be done this night,’ he whispered.

  ‘I am ready,’ she replied.

  Hardknot took a moment to reflect on Annie’s ability to satisfy his wishes, a girl he had rescued from St. Joyley’s School for Ejects and raised to his own desires. Under his guidance she had been trained as a nursekeeper and then given close access to the King, the place where he had wanted her to be from the day he had first seen her. She was beautiful too, despite her unflattering linen uniform, and Hardknot had also decided to use this fact to further his ambitions. He had identified a highly talented young relical with close access to Cardinal Oblong named Bartolamy. ‘You are to make him your lover,’ he had commanded. It was a task Annie had little difficulty in accomplishing, for Relical Bartolamy fell quickly under the spell of Annie’s physical charms. And so it was that titbits of Church gossip that she withdrew in the afterglow of forbidden passion, began to land gently in Hardknot’s ears like bees upon a flower. But as time passed, Annie went beyond her duty, and under the spell of the young man’s charisma, had fallen in love.

  A flicker of the glowick drew his attention to the figure in the bed. He stared at his King, the moment he had waited for for so long stretching before him. He took a small brass canister from a pocket and held it to his cheek to feel the warmth from within. He placed it to his ear and could just detect the sound of movement. Annie smiled and held out her hand to receive the container, also holding it to her cheek and then to her ear.

  Annie undid the lid and placed the open canister on the bed covers. She tapped it gently. There was a pause, a moment of utter stillness, and then slowly a tiny dark brown bee walked into the dim light. When it had left the canister, it stopped to sense its new surroundings, two tiny antennae feeling the air. Its wings had been clipped so that it was unable to fly. Annie picked it up gently between her thumb and forefinger; its legs clawed for grip as she studied its form intently.

  ‘St. Sidelia’s Honeybee,’ whispered Hardknot.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ said Annie.

  ‘There will be no evidence. No way to detect toxicity. Nothing shall betray our hand.’

  ‘Then,’ Annie whispered, ‘thy will be done.’

  She squeezed its abdomen between her fingers, a short sting becoming barely visible, and then she moved closer to the King. She placed the bee onto his cheek and began to blow over it softly. Samel began to stir, so Annie whispered into an ear a long and soothing ‘Shush’. This calmed him. She looked at Hardknot, smiled, and then turned and watched as slowly the bee walked towards King Samel’s open mouth and then onto his tongue. It stopped for a moment, tasting the old man’s saliva, and then seemingly satisfied, walked into the open mouth and out of sight.

  Hardknot and Annie stared at the King until eventually the bee reappeared, its legs unsteady now with the occasional tripping step. As if drugged, it walked slowly to the end of King Samel’s tongue to where Annie was holding the open brass canister. It paused, as if considering whether to enter the darkness once more, and then continued its slow walk until it was out of sight. It would soon be dead.

  Annie leant over the King and felt his pulse with her forefinger, her lips moving slightly as she counted the essence of life.

  ‘It begins to fade,’ she whispered.

  Hardknot stared into her eyes. ‘Will Relical Bartolamy visit you this night?’

  Annie nodded.

  ‘His love for you grows bolder.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, looking away.

  It was all he needed to see.

  Lord Hardknot left the room and walked across the Daylight Hall to leave the King’s Quarters. Both nighthounds rejected his attempt at a parting stroke, their lips now tight drawn across their teeth and deep growls rumbling within their chests. The morrow would see them safely disposed of too, he thought, as he strode away.

  By the time his coach arrived back at the Hivedom, the Red Sun had cleared the darkness. His Hivecarls stood guard at the high gates, their huge axes resting on their shoulders. As always they were vigilant, and more than a match to any guard the Palace could boast. They opened the gates and raised their axes in salute as he passed them by.

  Hardknot went to his private balcony high atop the Grand Hive. Thin wisps of cloud drifted like smoke above him. The day would be clear and warm, a fine day for the Royal Honeybees.

  Around him and into the far distance stretched the fields of Royal Clover, the countless petals tinged with red in the growing light. In the sheltered and fertile environment of the Hivedom, the plants flourished, providing a spellbinding panorama of shifting colours in the rays of the Green, Red and Blue Suns as they made their respective journeys across the sky. For one hour at noon, in their combined white light, the true nature of their delicate pink petals was revealed.

  Spread throughout the fields were huge flowerbeds and shrubberies, whilst surrounding the edge of the fields were the blossom orchards, each one filled to bursting with fruit trees of every possible description. Beyond them the high walls of the Hivedom were swept by rich varieties of rose, honeysuckle, clematis and wisteria. And through it all, as far as the eye could see, lay the beehives, the honeycombed Kingdom contained within each populated by a unique swarm of Royal Honeybees. Passing from bloom to bloom within the tranquility of the Hivedom, these mystical creatures fulfilled their blessed purpose, collecting pollen and harvesting the sweet nectar from deep within each flower. As they moved they also distributed pollen from plant to plant, fertilising new flowers for generations to come.

  Hardknot stared over the Hivedom’s walls and saw the greyness beyond. No pollinated plants were permitted life in the City, and in Hardknot’s mind a pall of lifelessness lay over the scene. He stared at the silver dome of St. Vacant’s Cathedral and, as he had done many times before, imagined a day when the hated monument to the Church’s power would be reconsecrated in the name of Honeyism. Then would the ugly greyness of nameless deities, known only as Them, be swept away forever; the Royal Honeybees and their precious gift of Honey, restored once more to the heart of daily life. He gave thanks for the love She bestowed upon him.

  The sweetest scent and the gentle hum of millions of wings filled the air. He closed his eyes and allowed his soul to wander from his body until he was at one with the honeybees, joining in their common purpose. He flew over the City, the intoxication of flight overwhelming his being completely. High above the walled City, he saw at a glance the power that would soon be his. In the growing light, he wheeled around St. Butterbean’s Tower, just for the sheer joy of it, and then with sudden impulsiveness flew straight through an open window, across a room full of relicals studying their huge books, and then out of another, his wings pulsating on his back as he soared into the air. He stared down with contempt at St. Vacant’s Cathedral; heavily-scented air rushed over him as he streaked through a broken stained glass window and into the open space. The Grand Altar lay before him, the Tabernacle of Unification upon it glinting in the light from a thousand glowicks. A Bishop with his head bowed knelt before it, his prayers mumbling from his lips like water over a fall.
Hardknot landed upon a ring laden finger and drove his sting home. He left the cry of agony behind and flew back to the safety of the Hivedom, settling upon the rich clover to take his fill. He entered a nearby hive, his back and legs covered with pollen and his stomach swollen with nectar. He deposited his gifts deep within the hidden kingdom. He felt his wings begin to beat faster and faster, the effort immense, the vibrations pulverising his senses. He felt the exertion begin to take its toll, his temperature rising as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Yet still he beat his wings, a living organism with a single purpose. Then as the water began to evaporate from the nectar, Hardknot felt his soul drift into a wondrous moment of fulfilment. His wings gradually slowed and the sounds and scents of the hive returned. And there it lay before him, glorious blessed honey.

  ‘Once sweet, now pure; once liquid, now ethereal; once living, now life giving’, he whispered, as he returned to his body. As with all Honeyists, this saying, spoken by the vilified martyr Jasmine Parthanter, was deeply held within the heart of Lord Hardknot.

  The first rays of light from the Blue Sun rose in the distance, a golden glow growing in the sky. Soon the Royal Honeybees would leave the Hivedom to visit Queen Camellia, bringing her the Gift of Ethemany to glorify her soul. In his mind’s eye, Hardknot watched the femones as they attended to their Queen. He saw Lasivia, a femone of unparalleled potential, add the tiny phial of liquid to the bathwater. The scent of Ellyssia was as powerful as it was rare, but none would detect it save the honeybees themselves, each one capable of recognising the unmistakable sign of infertility. As the bees began to carry the scent back to the hives, an unstoppable chain of events would be set in motion. The timing would be perfect.

  The huge Bells of St. Vacant broke the silence. Rung only on occasions of great significance, their shattering of the dawn could mean only one thing. The venom driven deep into the King’s trachea had fulfilled its deadly purpose. Hardknot felt a tickle on his hand and looking down saw an adult male drone cleaning his rainbow gossamer wings in the early morning light. He smiled as the bee readied itself upon his skin, then moved his free hand and stroked it gently, the creature arching its back and buzzing its wings.

  ‘She is coming,’ he whispered.

  The drone buzzed in pleasure once more and then took to the air, Hardknot watching it until the last glimpse of its tiny body disappeared into the enormity of the sky.

  Chapter 3

  Cardinal Oblong, Primate of the Holy Church of Afterwards, watched the wet stone wall drift by. Distant sounds of suffering filled the air. The eight novicicals were unsteady as they carried his extravagant sedan chair up the steep spiral staircase, and it was all he could do not to reach out and deliver blows to their heads with the large club he still held in his hand. But there was only so much punishment that even he could mete out in one night, and he was far too exhausted by the blessings already delivered in the Sacred Hellholes to raise his arm even one more time.

  The machinations of Lord Hardknot, the hated Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, had driven Oblong to deliver suffering to the Innocents in person. It had been a good and holy night, with many Indemnities fulfilled and off the ledger. For despite the years, the affairs of Church and State, and the widening girth of neck, waist and ankle, there was no one quite like Cardinal Oblong when it came to the sharp end of Church ceremony and the profit of pain.

  Born into a life of privilege, Oblong had long since neglected to care for his body. Suffice to say he was a huge man, with great folds of flesh that rolled over him like a winter eiderdown. His face too held several layers, and deep within it a round nose, puffed cheeks and sharp uneven mouth, seemed to move with independent care. But his eyes, when they too were not hidden behind large folds of flesh, were fierce and alert, and of the deepest aquamarine blue.

  Oblong stared at the congealed blood and matted hair that clung to the deeper recesses of the Club of Deliverance. The wordless cries of the Innocents still rang in his ears, each one a shaft of pure light; cleansing, purifying, and above all providing the certainty of absolution. For what greater good could there be, he thought, than the safe deliverance of salvation?

  He sat back and repeated the words that Lord Hardknot had flung in his face at the Ceremony of Approbation. ‘She will be recognised, and He will be chosen.’ Such words were clearly steeped in the stench of Honeyism, for there was no doubt in Oblong’s mind that the Hivedom of Lord Hardknot had become seduced by Her evil creed. But what did they mean?

  A sudden jolt of the sedan brought Oblong to the present moment; he sat up from the deep velvet cushions that covered his throne like seat and aimed a blow at a head brushing against one of the heavy curtains. There was a satisfying solid thud as the club hit home, followed by a yelp of pain.

  ‘The Pain of Forgiveness Be Upon You!’ he sang.

  ‘And Upon Yours!’ the novicicals repeated in unison, each one well-practiced in the art of acknowledging suffering. The sedan continued its upward spiral away from the cries of endless torment.

  A curse on the Hivedom, he thought. It was an anachronism that had been suffered for too long. A day was coming when he would wipe from the face of existence the one place that lay outside of the Church’s control; stone by stone, flower by flower, and hive by hive. And when Lord Hardknot himself was consumed by fire, the last bastion of Honeyism would have been eradicated at last.

  The sedan cleared the last stair and entered a long wide hallway, the rough stone walls lined with wooden drawers marked with inscriptions to detail the sacred relics within. At the end of the hallway lay a huge sealed doorway, and as it was opened the sound of the Cathedral’s bells filled the air. Oblong shouted a command and the novicicals lowered the chair. He did not wait for hands to assist him, but stepped onto the floor and strode into the very heart of the Holy Church of Afterwards.

  As he entered the incense heavy atmosphere he saw Bishop Henceforth, the Prime Predicate, walking hurriedly towards him along the Nave, together with several deeply hooded spouts. As they drew closer the spouts stopped and bowed, allowing the Bishop to approach the Primate alone.

  ‘Your Mostfull,’ Henceforth said bowing. ‘The King is dead.’

  Oblong stared at Henceforth speechless, for the timing of such an event came as a complete surprise. ‘When did this happen?’ he demanded at last.

  ‘He was found dead within his bed this very morning, Your Mostfull,’ replied Henceforth, then he glanced down at the Club of Deliverance that Oblong still kept firmly grasped in his left hand. He waved a finger in the air and one of the spouts walked forward to receive the club. After washing and blessing, it would be returned to the plinth that surmounted the Altar of Forgiveness.

  Oblong released the club, stretching his fingers several times. ‘And how is he dead so sudden?’ he asked. ‘He was ill, but not critically.’

  ‘That is true, Your Mostfull. But the event being so recent, I do not yet have this information. But no doubt a Post Deadness will be carried out to determine the cause.’

  ‘We must call the Council of Yesses to seat,’ said Oblong. ‘Not a moment can be wasted. The Board of Doings must be pressured to select a King that will support the Holy Church, and all its works. Baron Pencille has long been prepared as the Church’s candidate for the Crown. This day has come sooner than I had hoped; he is…far from ready. But no matter, he must be nominated without delay.’

  ‘Guessing your wishes, Your Mostfull, the Council have already been summoned.’

  ‘I will attend personally.’ Oblong turned to leave.

  ‘But there is another matter I must bring to your attention,’ said Henceforth, stalling his departure.

  Oblong stared into Henceforth’s eyes for a moment, as if searching his motives. ‘Be brief,’ he said at last.

  The bells high above them finally fell silent. As their last echo died, Henceforth glanced at the spouts still waiting silently behind him and then leant forward and whispered. ‘I am sure you would not wish what I ha
ve to tell you to be overheard, Your Mostfull. A private chapel lies close at hand.’

  They entered an immaculate chapel dedicated to St. Pristina, the Patron Saint of Cleanliness, a sacred space where not one single shred of foreign matter was permitted residence.

  Oblong bowed before a plain marble statue. ‘St. Pristina, clean and protect our Blessed Kingdom,’ he intoned.

  Henceforth bowed also and added a reverential ‘Amen to all that,’ before dismissing a group of cleaners working silently before them. When they were alone Henceforth’s face fell into a grave countenance as he began to speak. ‘As Your Mostfull is aware, as Prime Predicate of our Holy Church, I am directed to evaluate such information as may be acquired concerning those that have fallen sway to...dangerous ideas.’

  Oblong snorted impatiently and Henceforth continued at a brisker pace.

  ‘Your Mostfull’s most trusted servant, Relical Bartolamy, is engaging in…the feminine arts.’

  ‘Bartolamy?’ roared Oblong. ‘Impossible! He is a reinforced celibate!’

  ‘I am afraid there is no doubt,’ said Henceforth firmly, ‘for I did recognise his buttocks through an open window as they did rise and fall before me.’

  ‘And how is this so?’

  ‘Because they were the self-same buttocks that I myself have whipped in Holy Flagellation, Your Mostfull, the scars as personal to any man as the lines of skin on his fingertips. It was also clear that the female beneath him was not one of our Sisters of St Salacious about her rightful duty, for her hair was cut and her hands untied. And more than this, she did...’ he struggled to speak the words, ‘…behave in a way that was clearly heretical, there being no doubt that pleasure was being taken, as well as given.’