Queen of the Warrior Bees

by Jean Gill

  Jannlou had protected her before, was saying nothing now when it would be so easy to point a finger at her strange behaviour. Why? Already he’d looked away but merely asking the question made her resolve to confess falter, and led to other questions. Were the accused really traitors? If so, why did she feel no kinship with them? If not, why would Shenagra execute them?

  As her brain whirred, Shenagra announced ‘This one,’ at the other side of the Hall. ‘Have you thought our community prejudiced against women? Have you wanted more for your daughter than you have known?’ Shenagra asked a mousy-haired lady in a lime gown. ‘Have you spoken of such matters and raised discontent? Threatened sustainability?’

  ‘I have,’ was the quiet reply and the eleventh traitor met her end.

  ‘Eleven,’ announced Magaram. ‘Eleven traitors for eleven deaths and we will know if there are more.’

  That made no sense. The number of deaths would have been a result of allergic reactions, not one murder victim matched with a murderer. Far from looking like an organised group of traitors, the accused had seemed the most innocuous of citizens with the most trivial of qualms. And she should know what acts of real treachery were like! Crimvert had known too. His paean to Nature had made her own heart sing. Now he had been a traitor.

  Was it possible these were ordinary citizens who’d just been killed for everyday thoughts? But why?

  Then the answers came to her. Because they had no idea who had let in the forces of Nature. And because they wanted a display of strength that would strike fear into every ordinary citizen. Who in that Hall had not pondered such questions in private? Unless their Maturity Test had left them as brain-dead as she was pretending to be. She did not look towards Jannlou, nor to Declan where he and Kermon stood among the artisan mages. What had Kermon called himself? A soul-reader. No, she did not want to catch the eye of a soul-reader this day.

  Magaram was speaking again. ‘If you hear of such wickedness again, tell us. Even if it’s your wife, husband, daughter, son, friend – better to lose one person and sustain society! Any strange words, any strange behaviour, tell us! May Perfection guide and protect us!’

  So, that was how they planned to find her. By turning every other person in the Citadel into her enemy. If only they knew – they’d changed nothing. Her only friends were her bees and they would not betray her.

  ‘But we too must beware of the evil within and we have come to a difficult decision. Mage Rinduran will explain it to you.’

  Bastien’s father took centre-stage, his aura of modesty so great it drew all eyes in curiosity.

  ‘Mage Magaram does me too much honour. He wanted to spare you this burden but we feel there is no choice.’

  So, Magaram had been outvoted on whatever this decision was and Rinduran was spokesman. Interesting.

  ‘I have made special study of the walls, so I know better than most the toll that such an experience takes on a person. I will prepare those chosen, so as to keep you safe.’

  The word ‘chosen’ chilled the Hall after the fate of those previously chosen.

  Magaram responded to the silent apprehension. ‘Fear not. Shenagra is choosing ten to represent you, to go into the walls and hear our history and report back to you on what Perfection truly means, why our society is sustained with our laws and practices, so you all understand what we mages know already.’

  This time Shenagra’s hair remained neatly braided as, once more, she paced the Hall, selected one person here, another there. They were clearly of different backgrounds and types. As the traitors had been, thought Mielitta, not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed to be passed over again.

  Then she saw the chosen ones file down towards the dais, among them Drianne, her thin arms hugged tightly around herself. Bastien exchanged a glance with his father and then his eyes never left the girl. Eleven dead and ten more chosen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the third time the bees checked under Mielitta’s bed.

  There’s nothing there, they told her again, returning to her mind, which was buzzing with more than bees.

  She couldn’t ask them again so, finally, she looked under the bed for herself, pulled out her bow and quiver, her book on survival. She lay on the floor peering into the shadows, thankful for the optimal room lighting as she scrutinised the surface. Only when she was sure that there was not one ripple there and certainly no hairs, did she turn her attention to her weapons.

  She drew a short arrow from the quiver, threw it at the corkboard on her wall, enjoyed the ping and thud as it flew and hit home.

  She repeated the exercise until there were no short arrows left. She sighed. If only the arrows would return of their own accord. Maybe she could enlist some retrievers.

  ‘Work,’ she suggested to the bees but they became still, feigning sleep.

  We’re not ants! Her inner queen was indignant. We don’t carry weights.

  ‘Sorry,’ she told the bees. ‘I’m still learning. Anyway, it keeps me fit. I was just being lazy.’

  Checking her equipment, changing a flight, smoothing a splintered shaft, merely postponed the moment she had to face what she might have done. She’d destroyed the hermetic seal around their community, brought sickness in, killed people. However, listing the facts of the matter prevented her wallowing quite as deeply in guilt. The mages had been discussing a breach before Mielitta had been outside. Crimvert had not been innocent, unlike the eleven in the Hall. But those deaths had not been by her hand. Maybe the infection had not been caused by her either. All she knew for sure was that she could not trust the mages to tell the truth. Maybe there had been no casualties at all and Magaram’s intention had been to spread fear, gain support for his rule.

  As did Rinduran, with one tiny difference. He wanted Magaram out of the way. Mielitta was sure that Bastien’s father was going to use this visit into the walls to his advantage but she had no idea how. When the volunteers – hostages? – reported back in the Great Hall tomorrow it might be too late to rescue Drianne from whatever that conspiratorial look between Rinduran and Bastien had meant. But what could she do? She had her bow, arrows and bees against all the magecraft in the Citadel. Not to mention being under surveillance by all its residents.

  Work, the bees told her.

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  Work, they insisted. What if.

  Mielitta had not played ‘what if’ since the days when she had little friends to play with. The principle was that you could imagine anything you wanted to happen and then the team would each state a step to take on the way to making it happen. There was no winner but their stories had brought their dreams to life. A dangerous game to play beyond childhood, judging by what had happened to the eleven in the great Hall.

  Defiant, Mielitta played what if, imagining Drianne and the others hosted – imprisoned – in the mages’ quarters, then in ‘preparation’ with Rinduran tomorrow before going into the walls to experience history. What if she could be there during the preparation, go into the wall? She could check on what was happening to Drianne, know whether she should risk a daredevil strike or wait patiently. What if she too could go into the wall, experience history first hand, maybe – her pulse raced – maybe even experience her own history, find out where she had come from before the Finding?

  She remembered book-words. What if she could be there like a fly on the wall?

  Bee, the voices said. Bee on the wall.

  ‘Bee,’ she agreed. Maybe that would work. In the morning. Nothing would happen tonight. The volunteers would try to sleep and so would she. Rinduran was responsible for them and every citizen would witness them reporting back tomorrow so Drianne should be safe. And if she wasn’t, Mielitta would know. If her plan worked.

  Mielitta shelved the survival book in its alphabetical place. She didn’t need the physical copy any longer, having memorised text and images. They made little sense to her at the moment but, as with bees and sunshine, when the experience reached her she wo
uld have the words and the understanding required. Living in the Forest would be very different from visiting it and she shied away from the prospect, unless she was forced to flee.

  The library was a calm haven as usual and with such momentous events happening in the Citadel, Mielitta felt it highly unlikely that she would be disturbed. The mages had better things to do than seek out books and Rinduran was certainly occupied for the day.

  ‘One bee,’ she ordered and instantly one bee was hovering, investigating a book.

  She remembered the dead bees surrounding her after the attack, the way they’d passed. Or so she’d thought. The way she’d died. Or so she’d thought. But second chances didn’t mean immortality and she didn’t believe them to be proof against magecraft.

  ‘It is dangerous,’ she told the bee. ‘You might not come back.’ Truth compelled her to change that to, ‘You will probably die.’

  She should have known bees better.

  Why should this matter? buzzed not only the bee chosen but all her workmates. Work, they agreed. It doesn’t matter who does the work. Each has her turn to be nursemaid, to clean, to tend to the queen, to collect pollen, to die. We tend to you, our Queen. Next, you will want bees to have names. We are all worker bees.

  Work, buzzed the one bee selected, happy.

  ‘I just hope it does!’ muttered Mielitta. Whatever the bees’ opinions, she felt a pang, sending this little friend on such a mission. What if, she reminded herself.

  She shut her eyes, concentrated, made an image mapping the route to the Council Chamber, for that would surely be where Rinduran was preparing the volunteers. She shared the image with the bees and they danced it together, so they could reinforce the scout’s mind map. She pictured the bee crawling on the wall, observing the humans, transmitting its impressions.

  She danced the danger of getting close to the humans and she showed Drianne. Her mind linked with the bees, she could almost see Drianne through their eyes, as a blue human, with a lilac face. If only she could communicate Drianne’s scent, that would make it easy for the scout.

  Mielitta remembered holding the girl as she cried, recovering from her ordeal with Bastien. Her nostrils flared in recall and the girl’s scent burst onto her senses and imprinted on the bees: salty tears and freshly soaped young skin, fear and dried sweat, with base notes of pure sweetness.

  The bees were pleased with her and hummed approval. Your Drianne flower, your sweetness, joy.

  What mattered was that they had the scent true, not what was lost in translation, so Mielitta just agreed.

  Flying in small loops, the scout bee set off on her mission to find Mielitta’s precious flower and report back. A little investigation found a bee space in the door frame and the scout was soon out of the library and out of sight.

  What if? Mielitta closed her eyes, felt the bees’ presence, imagined the scout’s route and what the Citadel would look like from the bee’s viewpoint. Dim at first, then more vivid, Mielitta saw the walls either side of her, far from her zigzag flight. Blues and purples, and a macro perspective changed the familiar landscape. The three eyes on top of her head were alert for danger from above as the scout followed her mind map, humming a work-song.

  ‘Quietly,’ Mielitta pleaded.

  The scout was now close to the door of the Council Chamber but there was no detail in the bee’s vision, just woodette, which blocked the way, and shadows, which were holes accessing the room beyond.

  Mielitta felt dizzy from the shared flight and relieved when the scout followed her instructions and landed on a wall. The relief was short-lived as her view of the room turned through a full circle.

  Glimpses of the room, along with her memory of the Council Meeting, showed Mielitta the volunteers sitting at the table while Rinduran paced about, talking to them. The human voices boomed along the bee’s antennae and Mielitta could only interpret odd phrases.

  ‘Overwhelming… millions of voices, sounds, pictures… say the search word clearly, focus… each his own search word… different tasks… or distraction… get lost,’ Rinduran lectured them.

  A volunteer’s voice. ‘… help?’

  Rinduran. ‘Each one… word… get out.’

  Then the scout found a match for the picture of Drianne in her mind and buzzed in excitement.

  ‘Hush,’ warned Mielitta but the bee was on her mission. She flew straight towards Drianne, alighted on her bare wrist. She unrolled her long tongue, sipped the tear-drop that had landed there unnoticed. Mielitta could taste the bitter-sweet tear, feel the human pulse connect with the vibration of the buzzing bee.

  A gentle finger touched her striped back, stroked her, whispered something that sounded like, but couldn’t have been, ‘Wh-where are you from, honey g-g-girl?’

  Then the bee’s buzz seemed to grow, fill the room and Mielitta realised that the voices had stopped.

  ‘Get out!’ she yelled.

  Get out! the bees echoed.

  The scout sensed something, crawled underneath Drianne’s hand to hide but it was too late. Mielitta felt a flash like midday sun knock her onto the table, pin her there on her back, helpless. Magecraft.

  Then the voice rumbled, ‘Forest filth. How dare you send your vermin here! I see you, turd.’

  Mielitta had only just realised how clear his words were when she felt the mage’s power sear into her. He was looking through the upper eyes of the scout but he wasn’t looking at the bee. He was seeking her, tracing the link between her and the little scout, and she was pinned to the table.

  Rinduran laughed. ‘Come and join us. We want to see you, not these pathetic creatures you send. In the name of Perfection, I command you, show yourself.’

  Mielitta was helpless to resist as she felt her body wavering, being dragged into the bee’s, the same sickening jolt as she’d felt in the Maturity Barn but this time across a far greater distance and she would have no recovery time. She could hardly breathe, in the blast of magecraft that drew her inexorably to a fate worse than Crimvert’s. If she could only reach her arrowhead, maybe she could make one effort and stab the mage as she fused with the bee on the table. She struggled but her arms were as firmly pinned by her side as the bee’s wings.

  Rinduran missed nothing. ‘I can feel your feeble struggle. I can feel your panic. And soon I will see you, know who you are. Then we can have a proper traitor’s death for our good citizens to enjoy.’ His will was entirely focused on her, his eye closer and closer, magnified in hers.

  Desperately, she named library books, trying to stay in human form. Flora in Wetlands and Wolds, Delusional Psychosis in One Hundred bz bzz bzzz. She was losing the battle.

  Dart, her inner queen told her.

  If Rinduran’s attention was wholly on her, he would not be thinking about the pathetic little creature on the table. What if?

  Mielitta stopped fighting, let herself whoosh into the oil-black void of nightmares, a whirlpool eye seen through thousands of hexagonal facets. That sucked her into the body of a bee.

  For a micro-second, Mielitta and the bee were one. She breathed, ‘Sorry,’ as she bucked her abdomen, pierced the mage’s glaring eye with her stinger and watched the venom drip off the jettisoned dart.

  Rinduran screamed, flailed his arms in a blind attempt to hit the unseen enemy as one eye swelled like a balloon and the other watered, equally useless.

  ‘Call me back!’ Mielitta ordered and as her bees danced her back to the library, the last thing she heard was Drianne laughing hysterically. A reaction for which she would no doubt pay dearly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mielitta stretched until she woke up enough to open her eyes and check that the light was paling to daytime grey. She threw off the covers, jumped out of bed and curved her back into an exercise routine. She hadn’t been to the archery yard since becoming an adult and although working out would keep her body toned, she was worried about losing her speed of reaction without practice. She might need all her skills to rescue Drianne. If o
nly she could figure out when and how to intervene, but she didn’t know what the Maturity Test involved and she could hardly ask. Or maybe she could.

  The terrifying events in the hall had put an end to casual conversation but now would be a good time to resume acquaintance with her table-mates. Her new friend Hannah enjoyed girlish conversation so it would be a kindness to encourage her. Mielitta shrugged her clothes on, combed the tangles out of her hair and braided it, then headed for breakfast. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as she swished past and she barely noticed.

  She took her place by Hannah at what had become her table and smiled at Georgette and Ninniana. If they wanted to join in the conversation, they were welcome but she would work Hannah first.

  ‘May the stones be with you,’ she greeted the other girl, observing her more closely this time. The rose-pink gown bore an embroidered heart with the initials HG inside and space to add more. Uneven needlepoint stitches suggested that this was Hannah’s work rather than that of any seamstress.

  ‘Thanks be to Perfection,’ replied Hannah, taking her seat and bestowing her smile on Georgette and Ninniana.

  Once the greeting formalities and obligatory smiles had been exchanged, Mielitta began to dig. ‘I’m so excited about the Maturity Celebration and you said there’s going to be a Courtship Dance too!’

  Hannah raised a delicate eyebrow, surprised. ‘There always is after a Maturity Ceremony. Didn’t you know?’

  Mielitta looked down, suitably mortified, caught out. She stuttered a bit for effect and thought of Drianne. ‘I-I my test was–’ she whispered the word but projected it enough to be heard by all the girls. ‘–different because I was a late starter.’ She wasn’t sure whether ‘late starter’ was a permanent condition or one you could resign to the past. She could hardly ask Rinduran or Bastien for their judgement so she chose the past tense. With an appropriate expression of downcast shame at such a past.