Keeper of Sorrows, page 16
The little girl I’d saved hadn’t left me. Her clammy fingers, her tight grasp, her fluttering, bird-like heartbeat haunted every second of every day. Who was she? I’d overheard the staff whispering about the Razing’s unnatural beasts, the damage they could do – collapsing homes, possessing whole villages, poisoning minds with hallucinations that inevitably led brother to slay sister, wife to slay husband. Civil wars of the nastiest caliber. Were the scrim part of that darkness too? No one had ever been able to tell me what the swarm of creatures was doing, what their purpose was, their origin, other than they didn’t exist until the Razing. They were linked. Abelha, the scrim, the Razing, the spectral army, and maybe just maybe, how I ended up here in the first place.
I tamped those questions down as the hallway turned cold, the humming fading. If only the marching would too. Crimson light snarled the shifting shadows. I was in the Keeper’s wing. I slid into the mural of a woman with an outstretched hand, beneath the door, to the hand she reached for on the other side within the Keeper’s chambers. I’d told myself long ago, I wouldn’t invade her privacy, not wanting to stumble upon her undressing or doing things humans tended to do in the solitude of their chambers.
But this was dire. My moment of weakness had shaken the citadel’s defenses, leaving everyone vulnerable to the next scrim attack. The eldest’s words grated my ears: the first scrim paved the way for others to enter. At least one scrim lurked around this fortress and, if it hadn’t transformed into that viper-eyed miscreant as I suspected, then something else entirely also haunted these halls. I’d congealed from scattered motes to a semi-solid, translucent form – think honey left out in the cold – allowing me to not only feel everything more acutely, the texture of murals, the iciness of shadows, the warmth of the sun on stained glass, but also to be seen. An advantage perhaps, apart from the fact that my glimmer could no longer zip back to my spire. But if my alterations were this immense, what could I expect of the scrim? Would they have morphed into a creature too powerful to handle by myself? This fear propelled me to work faster.
I hid in the mural of a queen bee at the head of the bed, curled up in the fat stripe that swept across her swollen abdomen, and waited. The paint here, oil, not acrylic like the rest of the murals, was warm, inviting. It lapped at my eyelids, pulling me into a deep sleep. I should’ve fought it, for I was in the Keeper’s chamber for a reason, yet the brushstrokes cozied up around me like a litter of warm puppies, and I succumbed.
Rum-glazed lips brushed mine. I awoke on a teal blanket; its fringe spread over moss on one side and dipped into a river of red on the other. I jolted up.
“Relax, love.” A callused hand reached into the stream of what I’d originally taken for blood and pulled out a bead so dark it neared purple and popped it in my mouth. It burst; tart juice leached moisture from my tongue. A cranberry. They pulled me to my feet. Myriad crimson channels stacked to sky-high peaks above, and vineyards striped the flat valley below. We were in Vintera during cranberry harvest.
I swiveled to my companion. Dark hair fell in waves over their dainty shoulders, winking beneath the sun’s dwindling light. Golden hour, artists called it. But when they turned to face me full-on, their features blurred, as if obscured by mist. They grabbed a sketchpad from our blanket and handed it to me. A woman with mischievous, violet eyes stared back.
“Is this—”
My companion dove into the channel of cranberries. Cool water splashed me. I grinned. Forgetting my question, I dropped the sketch and followed. The buoyant berries caressed my skin as I searched for my lover. A splash. A wriggling foot. I grabbed, but the smooth heel slipped from my fingers. I shot to the surface and—
The mural furred around me, welcoming me back. I shivered out of fury, out of frustration. Water still beaded on my skin. Always so close before the memory fluttered away. My previous glimpse, with flocks and tower-top sunsets, I could’ve sworn I was from Raptoria. But now Vintera was also a possibility? Distinguishing between oil and acrylic, acknowledging golden hour, the sketch…was I an artist too? If so, who was the woman I’d drawn on the sketchpad? Those violet eyes struck a chord. Why couldn’t I make out their face?
Scarlet rippled behind the bed canopy. Silk, a nightgown. I breathed easier, glad I hadn’t caught the Keeper indecent, and allowed my gaze to sharpen and expand, searching the crevices in the torch’s gauzy light. A pressed carmine suit with bronze piping eclipsed the red. Avice. I knew she’d be here. Two birds, one stone. Still, my strange affliction with her, hate for her proximity to the Keeper, for being able to stroke her downy skin, and respect for protecting her, both of which I’d fallen short of, battled within. The only passion right now, though, was via heated argument. They’d had many lately.
“The Keeper is under much stress, has had much to drink—”
“Don’t patronize me, Avice,” she hissed, spilling wine on her gown. “I know what I saw.”
The sentry grabbed a cloth from her chest of drawers. “What’s that, a stir of shadows, perhaps from the candle on your nightstand?” She dabbed the wine from the Keeper’s dress.
“No. Something that doesn’t belong within these walls.” She trembled, but from fear or the sentry’s touch? Likely both.
“Something…unnatural?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, it hides in the walls. I’ve felt it before, yet from afar. It’s closer now.” The Keeper’s eyes narrowed, skittering across the bee mural.
I didn’t blink nor breathe. What would she do if she found me?
“Is it…dangerous?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Why?”
“You know perfectly well why. If I say yes, you’ll scoot me out, send me off on a barge, far away from my babies. If I say no, you’ll say everything has the potential to be. Like a pet lion. It’s never a pet. It can claw your throat out if it’s having a bad day.”
Avice’s face strained as she finished cleaning the Keeper’s gown. “My charge, above all else, is your safety. If you got hurt, I would never forgive myself.”
“Death comes to us all. And I’d rather die here, surrounded by my bees, than elsewhere.”
“Fine. You’ll stay.” The sentry’s voice snagged. “For now. But as soon as I feel you’re in the slightest bit of danger, you’re off on the next bee barge.”
The Keeper grabbed her hand and slumped onto the bed. Sheets rustled to the floor, and a fat fish with plum spikes nibbled at the glass there.
“Have you tried painting?” Avice asked softly.
“Tried and failed.”
“But it used to bring you peace. It was your favorite pastime before Monsieur Costa encouraged you to take up beekeeping.”
The Keeper’s eyes were molten amber. “If by taking my paints and brushes and free will away, you mean encouraged, then we have a far different understanding of the word.”
“It was for the best. For Vintera, for you—”
“I was nine, Avice. Nine. A little girl. For six years I did nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe bees. He stole my childhood.”
“And because of your hard work, you made history. The youngest Keeper to ever win the Praxis. Only fifteen. You’re a marvel!”
“A marvel.” The Keeper snorted into her goblet. “Another word we define differently. I’m an artist who no longer paints, a guardian of bees who will soon have no bees to guard. I’m no marvel.”
“Monsieur Costa has never been prouder—”
“What makes you think I give a bee’s sting about my father’s approval? I do wonder, however, as you came into his employ before mine, who exactly you serve?”
Avice’s head dropped, her copper bun shooting into the air, but she didn’t answer. Nor did the Keeper. They sat in fuming silence. I’d known the Keeper had painted the murals, perhaps that’s why I felt so connected to them and moved about them easily, but the most powerful woman in all Vindstöld had a controlling father? I never would’ve guessed. The paintings hit differently now. They weren’t just expressions of beauty and boldness but defiance. We had something else in common: her life had been stolen from her too.
“I’m sorry. That was unkind. I suppose any scrap of adoration I once had for my father I poured into the bees. I do love them. They are my life. It’s just…something’s missing, and ever since Okse, whenever I pick up a brush, I feel like an imposter.”
“I do wish you’d tell me about that trip.” The captain tucked a stray strand behind the Keeper’s ear. “I know it couldn’t have been easy, all those refugees, the pain and suffering—”
“It was much easier for the volunteers than the displaced.”
When Avice withdrew her hand, the Keeper grabbed her wrist, placing her palm on her cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut, but a duet of soft lips pried them back open.
I didn’t want to watch. Couldn’t bear it. Yet, my head moved on its own, raze-bent on harming me. The sentry was nestled in the Keeper’s arm. Their mouths meshed, skin against skin. No beginning, no end. Moans rose between them, bloomed from their bed, over the glass floor. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t break my gaze. The room blurred, the mirror above her armoire fogging up as a lacy slip sighed to the floor, followed by pants. Then I only saw red.
I swam through the murals in a fury towards the mirror. The foggy mirror, made foggy by their sensuality. I had to escape. The glass, usually cool beneath my wings, was tepid, warmed from their steam. The human I wanted most to acknowledge me couldn’t see the pain coating me like tar. And now the kissing, the groping, the perspiration trickling down her neck, lit that tar on fire.
A cry of pleasure. I choked, then concentrated; all my cells and nerves and essence exploded in my fists. The mirror shattered and blew through the room, thousands of shards flashing.
The sentry jumped to her feet. The Keeper covered herself, eyes big and beautiful, searching the room. But I’d already slid beneath the door, swimming into the cold palm of the woman in the mural. Safe. As I sped away, a single thought like an agitated bee buzzed around me. I only managed to touch Lenita, her hair, her sleeve, with the utmost concentration. But now, it seemed, I could manipulate the space around me. Actually destroy objects in my presence, from sheer emotion. Terrifying, yes, but also gratifying. I was changing, my powers growing. What was I destined to become?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rancid
A thump jolted Naokah awake. It was still dark; the candle on her end table had burned to a winking nub. She reached across the bed and, when her thumb grazed a shoulder, a mixture of guilt and relief swept over her. Last night hadn’t been a dream. Not only did she get the girl, but the girl had also chosen to stay overnight. A revelation.
With taking care of Matri, the farm, and preparing for the Praxis, Naokah never had a lover. There was no time. Not that she had any business having one now. She’d known Brielle for what, two days? The Poler’s remark about the foxgloves still rubbed her wrong, with her friend getting poisoned by the same flower, yet she’d also revealed that her chateau was a lonely place. Her only friends were plants and Kjell. Would she really use one to kill the other? Naokah might’ve considered that before tonight, but why? Because no one was more gutted over Kjell than Brielle, or because she couldn’t have possibly been both a murderer and a cosmic explosion in bed?
The lavatory door creaked open and Naokah tensed. Shadows shifted in soft ochre light. Just the torches, but her pulse pounded thick in her neck. A hollow voice, like the night before, crept up her spine, sighing her name. Her gaze flicked to the mural. Still covered. Brielle stirred, eyelashes casting dark fans down her cheeks. Should she wake her? Whatever sinister presence lurked in this citadel, the Poler was apparently immune. When the water gurgled in the lavatory, Naokah pushed her sheets down and slipped out of bed. One truth she did know for sure: hiding under the covers would solve nothing.
The cold glass squeaked beneath her feet, and goosebumps crawled up her calves. Steam billowed from the thin crack of orange that led to the lavatory. She paused outside, trying to steady her breathing. But the tremors in her fingers leapt to her brain and, before her knees could buckle, she flung open the door.
Steam enveloped her, and she blinked to clear the fog. Water gushed from the sink. She shut it off, canvassing the glossy tub, the misty floor. No tub creature. No killer. No one. She sighed, irritated but relieved she didn’t have to face the culprit, then turned to go—
A pile of orange fur lay by the sink. She prodded it. Cold, stiff. Not a scarf. As more steam cleared, small triangle ears appeared. A fox. And from the awkward angle of its pointy head, its neck was broken. Teeth chittering, she backed up and nearly slipped on the damp glass. Tá tú chugainn was scrawled on the foggy mirror. There’d be no sleeping tonight. The phrase was Midese for ‘You’re next.’
* * *
Now more than ever did Naokah understand why in most of Patri’s mystery tales, the inspector had a partner. The burden of having to balance all the evidence and theories while trying to maintain a clear mind was crushing to the point of debilitating. If she had a partner, then at least someone would’ve been getting proper sleep and could’ve distinguished the nightmares from reality. For example, had someone broken into her chambers last night just to warn her? Theoretically, if she was next, couldn’t they have just killed her and saved themselves another trip? Unless Brielle’s unexpected presence posed too great a risk? The murderer was strong enough to push Dazarin out a window, though. She and Brielle combined didn’t add up to his brawn.
Naokah could still feel the wet plush of the fox’s fur, its broken neck, how cold and lifeless its little body had been as she’d carried it outside and buried it beneath a rose bush. She’d spent the better part of the night scrubbing at the dirt under her nails, sobbing into the muddy sink in utter frustration and exhaustion and helplessness over not just the poor beast, but everyone she’d lost and could still lose.
She’d woken Brielle with her blubbering, but her lover didn’t say a word. She simply turned off the sink, wrapped Naokah’s wrinkled hands in a towel, and kissed her tears away. The soft brush of Brielle’s lips against her damp cheeks, her nails stroking her back, the gentle whispering of, “It’ll be all right” – in Midese, no less – as Naokah cried into her warm embrace, this, even over the lovemaking, was an intimacy she’d never had before, and would never forget. Brielle’s tenderness almost allowed Naokah to open up, to be candid about the threat, but she simply couldn’t risk it. She lied, telling Brielle it was only a nightmare.
As of now, the only people who spoke Midese, aside from the obvious Mid envoys, were Samara, Mateus, the Crogan farmer, and the woman who’d been sleeping in Naokah’s bed during the event. But most of the Polers had a well-rounded education of Mid languages for trade purposes, and the staff came from all over Vindstöld. She couldn’t very well walk around and casually ask everyone if they spoke Midese. The reprobate would just deny it anyway. Reprobates. There could be more, working together. Something she hadn’t considered before. As for the fox, though, no one had more reason to kill it than Mateus. Like he said, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect the bees. But Naokah was as much a threat to the hives as Lenita had been. Something wasn’t adding up.
Naokah yawned as Samara, chipper despite the circumstances, swished about the conservatory in their pressed uniform, lecturing the remaining envoys about hive mentality – the collective work of bees to ensure the future of their species. Salmon light swam through the tempered glass, gilding the climbing flowers, and infusing the classroom with a rummy glow. But, like Samara’s faux cheerfulness this morning, the sun fell short. No matter how keenly it shone, how fervently Samara spoke, the room boasted all the excitement of a wake.
One of the envoys had killed himself – not really, but that’s what the sentries concluded – while one still recovered in the surgery. Kjell hadn’t poisoned himself, obviously, so there was a murderer on the loose in the citadel. She knew, the envoys and staff knew, but no one was doing anything about it. On top of that and undoubtedly connected, the only tangible piece of the puzzle she’d had of Lenita’s disappearance was stolen from her. She never should’ve let that razing journal out of her sight.
If there was a silver lining in this fortress of gloom, it was that someone had also brought her the journal in the first place. Someone trying to help. And if she could find them, maybe she could pin down the murderer before they killed someone else.
That was a big if, though. Right now, she had three leads: Mateus, Samara, and Brielle. Weak ones, at best. Brielle could’ve lied about being in her chambers and snuck into Naokah’s quarters, stashing the journal in her frilly gown before she was any the wiser. Why, though? She couldn’t think of a motive for any of the three, maybe because she was blinded by her fondness for them. Mateus, fluent in Midese and a known fox killer? The fresh scratches on Samara’s arm the night of Dazarin’s suicide? Brielle, getting in an argument with Kjell during the welcome ball? Brielle had also warned her about foxgloves. Simply knowing didn’t make her guilty, though, and Naokah couldn’t penalize her for loving plants.
Naokah shifted in her chair, and it creaked, “You’re next,” as she pulled at her gray trousers. Down to her last set of pants – the others were dirty or dirtier – she’d been forced to squeeze into a pair that would’ve better suited Lenita’s small hips.
This was taking too long.
She had to meet the chef. He was a worthy suspect in terms of poisoning, having access to food, and there was nothing more she wanted right now than to cross Brielle off her list. Her bias and hankering for a toe-curling repeat of last night didn’t help, but the lecture this morning was moving at a glacial pace, and her patience was running—
