by Jean Gill
So enthusiastic were the bees dancing on Drianne that three of Mielitta’s gave up supporting her to join in the new dance.
‘But you can’t speak without Kermon or me,’ objected Mielitta. ‘So one of us would have to go back with you.’
Drianne’s bees faltered a little and one took up Mielitta’s moves again.
She asked the question that had been troubling her since she first saw her friend’s marked face. ‘Did you use your power to change your face?’
Yes. Drianne was defiant. I learned from Puggy. She knew what happens to women who are beautiful.
‘But what if a man loves you? And can’t see past the strangeness? Do you need to make it as difficult as that?’
Oh you’re so obtuse sometimes! I don’t want a man to love me!
Kermon stopped interpreting Drianne’s words in order to make his own objection. ‘Bastien isn’t going to forgive Drianne so easily. There would be conflict from the start when we want healing. Drianne going would be just as bad as if Mielitta did. And women aren’t going to suddenly be equals overnight, which means fighting for your rights all the time.’
The bee dances paused, taking in the information, waiting for the next proposal.
‘I’m best suited to go back.’ Jannlou’s voice was grave, stating an absolute truth and his bees were suitably impressed before he’d even given a reason. ‘Bastien and I have history so he would accept me as he would not accept any of you. He is angry now but we know each other and I could explain… The other mages would accept me because of my father and they would see me and Bastien working together as healing, exactly what you want to make the Citadel more open.’ All Drianne’s bees and most of Mielitta’s had migrated to Jannlou’s dance now, waggling furiously, much to the chagrin of the two women.
‘And I’m a nice man,’ grinned Jannlou. ‘Ask the children. I don’t see a problem in staying in touch with them, supporting them as they grow into new adults.’
The bees seemed as smitten with Jannlou as the children had been and Mielitta felt chilled. Maybe he wanted to leave her. She’d assumed they were all willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, for the future, but maybe Jannlou wanted to go back. Would that be for his own good?
‘No,’ she said, ‘if I can’t go back, you can’t go back. We’re the same, you and I.’
His eyes pleaded with her not to say more but bees did not hide the flaws in a proposed home. All the advantages and disadvantages were open.
‘You’re not like your father, you’re not even a mage,’ Mielitta said, weighing her words. ‘And Bastien won’t cover for you any more so you can’t go back to how things were. Drianne would have more chance than you of making changes, exactly because she would be invisible. You would always be Magaram’s son and how long do you think you could hide your true nature?’
She challenged him with her eyes. He knew exactly what she meant and she would say it aloud if he didn’t back down.
‘I’ve hidden it until now,’ he said quietly.
‘Now,’ she retorted, ‘you have the Forest in you and cannot go back.’ Then she realised what she’d said.
‘Like you, Mielitta,’ said Kermon quietly. The bees hovered or settled on the people they had to judge.
‘Don’t you see,’ Mielitta burst out. ‘I don’t want any of you to go back. After what we’ve been through today, we don’t need signature blood oaths to bond us. We shouldn’t be split up!’
‘But as you said, one of us must go back, to nurture the Forest in the children, quietly, without drawing attention to the fact, or getting into fights. Who do you think is best suited for that job?’ asked Kermon. His bees began to dance, not as enthusiastically as had Jannlou’s but methodically, repeating their movements over and over, as if they could do so forever.
‘I am a mage,’ continued Kermon, ‘and now that Declan is d-dead, I will surely become the Master Mage-Smith. I will enjoy returning to the forge, making new patterns.’ His voice betrayed his lie. ‘I can control the materials that come into the Citadel, spot any abuse of the agreement, or attempts at forging children. I will be ideally placed to teach the children, to enable little girls to learn smithcraft.’ His eyes sought Mielitta’s. ‘So they don’t resent young male apprentices.’
Her eyes filled up but the bees danced relentlessly in Kermon’s moves.
‘You’re too soft,’ Jannlou told him, sparking the first ugly moment Mielitta had seen between them.
‘This isn’t work for a brute!’ Kermon retorted. ‘But I don’t think a smith has to prove he has muscles, if that’s what you want to see! Do you want us to fight for the privilege?’
Jannlou’s bees all deserted to Kermon’s, joining in the dance that was more of statement of fact than a frenzy.
‘Truthfully, I’d rather serve Mielitta by going back to the forge than stay here and watch you together,’ Kermon said, his colour high.
The bees stopped dancing, completely confused by emotions they didn’t understand. But Mielitta understood well enough and flushed.
‘This shouldn’t be about me! It’s bad enough when the bees treat me as their queen and fuss over me. I don’t want people fighting over me too!’
See, said Drianne. Beautiful means complicated. But you have to deal with that. I don’t.
‘You’d be alone,’ Mielitta told Kermon. The bees waited again. ‘None of us want to go, all of us have strengths and weaknesses so, as I seem to be Queen of this Forest, whether I want to be or not, it’s my responsibility. I should be the one to go back to the Citadel. Then there would be no disagreements here.’ She glared at Kermon and Jannlou. ‘I’ve listened to everyone’s point of view and I still think I should be the one to go.’
The bees showed no sign of being impressed by this argument and continued with Kermon’s patient dance movements. Mielitta searched desperately for a clinching argument. ‘I’ve saved the beehive, I’ve always found a way to survive in the Citadel, I’ve shown I can do what I set out to do! Kermon hasn’t proved himself. I have!’
‘So where do you think the Queen of the Forest is most needed?’ asked Jannlou.
How will the people who stay here survive without you? asked Drianne.
All the scout bees rose up and flew over to the swarm, dancing the four options on top of their fellow workers. There was little enthusiasm conveyed for Mielitta’s dance, more for Jannlou’s and Drianne’s but within seconds there was no doubt. All of the scouts were dancing the best proposal: Kermon was to return to the Citadel.
‘You can’t!’ Mielitta flung at him.
‘They don’t even know I was with you,’ he pointed out. ‘I can return with the children as if I’d never fought against them.
‘Verity knows,’ objected Mielitta.
‘She’ll believe I was just here to protect the children, under duress. And nobody saw me in the battle.’ He picked up the backpack he’d brought with him from the Citadel and passed it to Jannlou, who took it in silence, with a curt nod.
Mielitta thought of the three mages who would remain forever silent as to Kermon’s role. She knew he was right and she had no arguments left to prevent him returning to the Citadel, apart from the lead weight in her guts.
Drianne was already waking the children and the debate was over, whether Mielitta liked the outcome or not. She swore she would never use the democratic process again. She hated bees.
You will, her inner queen told her. And you don’t.
The children skipped and prattled, keen to get back home and tell their parents about their adventures, while the adults disguised their heavy hearts in more practical concerns. A little one fell over a tree root and cut his knee, requiring some of Drianne’s healing magecraft. Several had to be retrieved from explorations into the wild, inspired by a toadstool or a birdcall.
Finally, the Citadel’s children were all in the meadow. Mielitta allowed them one last play in the stream. When, if ever, would they play in sunlight and fresh water again?
Kermon had the intense look on his face that meant he was communicating with Drianne but their thoughts were closed to her. Then it was time to say goodbye. She wished she’d been less spiteful when they’d first met, more sensitive to his feelings. And now she was choked up, with no time to say anything that mattered, when he was walking into his prison. Would she ever see him again?
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, clear-eyed. ‘I’m not as soft as he thinks.’ The attempt at a grin was too much for Mielitta and she hid her tears against his chest. She hugged him tight, her voice muffled against the leatherette that smelled as it should, of smoke and smithcraft. Of her childhood that had been stolen from her.
‘I do care about you,’ she mumbled. ‘Like a brother. What are we going to do when we can’t talk to each other?’
He disentangled her gently. ‘I’m going to make another arrowhead, a twin to Steelwing. Then I can reach you through our arrowheads, so we can stay in touch. You and me, the Forest and the Citadel.’
‘How?’ she asked. ‘How can you do that?’
‘Magecraft and blood,’ he whispered. ‘I kept some.’
Her fingers went automatically to her pendant and she shuddered, knowing whose blood had been cleaned from it.
‘Not so soft after all,’ he told her, straightening his back and holding her away from him. He drew her pendant up from her bodice by the chain, kissed it. ‘Still beautiful,’ he told her. ‘Never doubt it.’ He hesitated. ‘He did care about you. Declan. Even though he wasn’t supposed to. But he was Perfect to the core, a fundamentalist, couldn’t accept what you were.’
She didn’t know what to say and there was no time left.
Kermon dropped the arrowhead gently down into its customary place and summoned the children, who reluctantly lined up in their crocodile. Mielitta watched until the last child vanished through the rainbow.
Her last chance to plead with the walls was gone, her last chance to find out what they knew about her origins, her last chance to talk to Kermon. What if he couldn’t make a twin arrowhead, couldn’t give it powers? He’d be locked in the Citadel, couldn’t speak to her ever again. She wanted to touch the walls, ask them for a last message. Surely, they’d tell her something vital? She wanted to have one more conversation with Kermon, say all that she hadn’t said, talk about Declan.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she told Jannlou, already running to the water gate. ‘I’ll come straight back. Just–’ She reached the gate, which had already lost its colours. She yelled ‘Radium!’
But the water gate hadn’t just closed. It had locked. The last child through had triggered some change of password or more. The Citadel was closed to them all forever.
For a long moment, Mielitta remembered a chamber that she could lock, where she could be alone and safe. Then she turned to her companions, wondering what they would miss. Not sustenance and purified water, not greylight and mind rape.
‘What was that all about? With Kermon?’ asked Jannlou, his eyes fierce.
‘Communication,’ replied Mielitta and sighed inwardly. Drones.
They stumbled back as far as the Forest’s edge but Mielitta could see her own exhaustion mirrored in her companions’ ashen faces. The lengthening shadows showed that day’s end approached. ‘Let’s rest here,’ Mielitta suggested. ‘I don’t think I can go any further today.’
As if her words had given them license to give in to their own fatigue, Jannlou and Drianne dropped at once to the ground, rearranged a cloak and a backpack as makeshift pillows. Mielitta wrapped her britches around her quiver and used that as a bolster, thinking of all the provisions they should have brought with them. Instead, all they knew about survival outside the Citadel was what she’d digested from a library book.
Too tired to sleep, she lay awake, worried instead of triumphant. Today, they’d saved the Forest, defeated Rinduran, all she could have hoped for, but they’d lost everything they knew. The unknown did not seem like an adventure any more.
It seemed years since she’d opened the mysterious birthday gift, read the note, worn the perfume, been attacked by her bees. The golden sigil tingled, part of her now.
She remembered the words of the prophecy. Did they make any more sense now?
When the bottle is empty, you will be full.
No life ends while The One lives.
In the year of the prophecy, choose well.
She considered the cryptic lines. She was full of bees. They called her the One. Had she chosen well? ‘No life ends’ wasn’t true. So many lives had ended!
But ‘No life ends’ echoed in her mind. There was a different way to read it. What had Jannlou’s mother said? ‘This is no life’. What if ‘no life’ in the Citadel should end? Because of what they’d done?
‘Drianne, are you awake?’ murmured Mielitta.
Yes.
‘What did you really see, when you went into the walls.’
A pause. The reply came slowly, a voice in the gathering blue. Twilight looked like bee-sight.
Rinduran told the truth when he said it was too much for me. But he didn’t understand. When he went into the walls, he saw people stroking animals and all he thought of was germs and allergy. I felt soft fur, companion spirits, the bond with pets. He saw people with animals, as food and as friends, and he was disgusted. I saw that people are animals. There was no disgust in her statement, rather an acceptance.
You were right to infect the children with honey, with Forest, because one day you will be able to say what you did and they will understand your words. They will never understand the truth that I saw in the walls. They all have Forest in them. Their own bodies need the work of millions of creatures, tinier than bees, to keep them healthy. When they try to keep the Forest out, they are killing themselves.
Mielitta thought about her body, occupied by thousands, millions, of tiny creatures. ‘So everybody has bees.’
Drianne’s laughter rang in her mind, gentle, not mocking. No, only you have bees. These other lives in our bodies do not impinge on our consciousness. Unless we think about them. But they are there. And we need them.
‘Could that be what’s wrong with Verity?’
Only the walls know.
Again, Mielitta felt her loss. There was so much she didn’t know. And now she never would.
‘Can’t we tell the people in the Citadel? That they can’t keep the Forest out. That it’s inside them.’
When I stood in front of them in the Great Hall, spoke through Kermon, I had the chance. But the walls showed me much. What is true and what people can accept as true are two different things. Kermon understood. He spoke for me and I was muted.
Mielitta must have dozed because the sky was black when she opened her eyes again, with thousands of sparkles and one pale curve of light. She had to share this with her companions on their first night outside the Citadel’s grey canopy.
‘Jannlou, Drianne, look!’
I know. Isn’t it beautiful?
‘It’s your bow,’ Jannlou told her. ‘Shining in the sky, a symbol of the new world we’re going to make.’
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Acknowledgements
Many thanks to:
my editor Lorna Fergusson of Fictionfire Literary Consultancy for believing in my bees and for sterling work (if you’ve read The Troubadours Quartet you’ll fully appreciate the word ‘sterling’);
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Babs, Claire, Karen, Kristin and Jane for all your constructive criticism and creative genius. This story began as a suggestion from Babs that buzzed around my head until I had to start writing and see what happened;
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Maurice Rossetti, the beemaster, who inspired me to run around a Provençal hillside in a white suit. Thanks to his patience over three years on his beekeeping courses, I have tasted honey from my own workers, produced in our beehives Endeavour, Diligence and Resolution (named by my husband);
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Long-Suffering Husband who did not foresee thirty-odd years ago that he would be running around aforementioned hillside in Provence with me, both dressed in white suits (inevitable, some would say);
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and the reader who told me about her little sister’s habit of stroking bees and who inspired Drianne’s reaction to bees.
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Tannlei’s archery teaching owes much to the most famous philosopher-archer: Confucius.
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My research on honeybees includes
Inspiration from the work of Dr Klaus Schmitt, Weinheim, Germany, on Reflected UV Photography – UV Remapping / Differentials. Thanks to his photographs comparing the way human, butterfly and bee vision would perceive the same flower or other object, I was able to imagine bee-sight. All scientific errors are mine not his.
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You can see his work on his blog.
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Selected reference works:
The Buzz About Bees – Jürgen Tautz
Honeybee Democracy – Thomas D. Seeley
L’Apiculteur – a monthly French journal for beekeepers
About the Author
I’m a Welsh writer and photographer living in the south of France with two scruffy dogs, a beehive named ‘Endeavour’, a Nikon D750 and a man. I taught English in Wales for many years and my claim to fame is that I was the first woman to be a secondary headteacher in Carmarthenshire. I’m mother or stepmother to five children so life has been pretty hectic.
