Keeper of Sorrows, page 18
A flash of white. A girl’s shrill scream. Gurgling, the dripping of liquid on glass. I saw nothing. The temperature had dropped, and the mural was no longer warm; the shading frosted my skin, expelling me to the hard floor. I was naked, exposed without the mural’s safety. I probed the lurking shadows but still couldn’t find anyone. Just muffled breathing. Someone didn’t want to be found. Stink curled my nose, and I froze. Behind the hive wall, pinpricks darker than night blinked on and off like twinkling stars. Nothing about them was brilliant, though. Only terrifying.
The portraits of Keepers blurred as the dots trembled and converged into a pulsating shadow. This creature couldn’t have been the scrim. It was too large, too angry. Not the bastard I let in. But when its slit pupils met mine, I reconsidered. Those eyes had haunted Lenita’s chambers the night I’d loosed one. It snarled, drool dripping from its rotten lips.
I gagged and tried to slip back into the mural, but I’d have had better luck swimming through ice. It crumbled, sharp projections biting my back, pushing me forward. The creature cocked its head, a hideous, unnatural angle as its eyes burned brighter, searing me. I tried to scream, but its hand hardened to steel around my throat, forcing me into the hives.
Bees rocketed out, filling the air with clouds of vengeance. The monster glared and rocked its head back and forth. Bees swarmed off its charred skull like flames, flaring, filling the space around us. I couldn’t die from suffocation. I was a lost soul. But its unforgiving hands cinched tighter, and my vision mottled.
“Where is it?” it moaned.
“Where’s what?” I couldn’t tell up from down, where its icy hand ended, where I began, as it squeezed my throat.
“The one they—”
The beast cut off, shrieking. A swirl of white ghosted by my eyes. The beast spun, dropping me. My knees cracked against the floor.
“Go!” a young girl screamed at the beast.
It roared and fled down the hall like a giant spider, its legs of darkness separating into thousands of humming gnats before dissolving into the walls. More bees clogged the corridors.
“Thank you,” I told her, crawling up. “What did it want?”
Her form sharpened, then blurred. She didn’t have eyes. Dark, bottomless voids spilled from her sockets. But I wasn’t scared. Something about her calmed me. And then it hit me—
“I know you,” I said, a moment too late.
She’d departed, slipping into the mural, a tiny green feather dancing in her hair.
Chapter Thirty
Mates
“What a nightmare,” Mila slurred, pouring herself into a seat.
If only. Naokah bit her lip. The gaunt-faced woman knocked over her drink, but Naokah grabbed the goblet before it shattered on the floor. Mila gave her a grateful, if not fragile look, then waved at the barkeep for another. Laerte and Clisten shared the same glassy-eyed resignation. They were at the belvedere, waiting an eternity, it seemed, for news about Brielle. The sun had set, painting the citadel a glowering red, and storm clouds bruised the sky. Another night in the citadel, another envoy gone.
Tá tú chugainn, her mirror had read last night. You’re next. She’d been horribly, horribly wrong. The threat hadn’t only been real, but meant for Brielle. This witch must’ve known what Brielle meant to Naokah. That they’d shared a bed. That taking the only good thing on this whole nightmare of an isle would utterly gut Naokah. And what had she done to prevent it? Absolutely nothing. This was all her fault. Instead of confiding in the woman who’d comforted her when she’d shattered from exhaustion and despair, she’d guarded her fear, lied, and even gone so far as labeling her a suspect. What a misguided, cynical fool Naokah was.
“Think the sentries will uncover anything?” Laerte asked, refilling Naokah’s glass with melgo. Since she’d left the distillery in a fury, he’d brought back a sample of what she’d missed. It was a bit sweet, but the scant solace it provided was better than nothing.
“Doubt it,” she said. Like before, the guards had made their rounds interviewing the envoys and staff, their expressions grim, defeated. And just like before, after talking to the cantankerous captain, Naokah left the inquisition with a chill. Because she was Brielle’s closest friend and suite-mate, she’d been asked a lot of questions. Had Brielle acted odd? Did she have any enemies? Did she ever express wishes to harm herself? All of which chafed Naokah for a couple reasons.
For one, the captain had already implied Lenita and Dazarin took their own lives and she probably would’ve checked the same box for Kjell were he not poisoned. Even still, if he never woke up, perhaps she’d try to pin self-inflicted death on him too. Now Brielle? It was the captain’s default answer when she couldn’t explain the mystery herself.
And two, Naokah hadn’t known Brielle for even a week and wasn’t qualified to determine changes in her character. But she should have. Brielle meant far more to her than some random, one-time romp. The very thought of those big, green eyes sparkling with wit, fervor, compassion vised her throat. She had quirks like anyone but wouldn’t have taken her own life. Naokah didn’t know much, but she did know that. If only she’d ignored Samara and gone back, Brielle would still be here, pouring her next drink.
Naokah sipped her melgo, and sputtered a cough. The distiller amped her alcohol content to match her aesthetic – beautiful but biting. From their brief encounter, Naokah respected Josmar. Perhaps because she reminded her of Tati and Lenita, strong women Naokah could only dream of being like. Yet, there was clear tension between Samara and Josmar. Had the chiding been related to the citadel’s death/missing count or a regular work spat? The distiller had been busy entertaining envoys when Brielle vanished, but maybe there was a team, a resistance from within. Some bees, upon sensing a predator, sprayed pheromones to prompt the workers to hide, then ambushed, rapidly vibrating their wings and cooking the intruder alive. Samara had said the staff and bees were family, not to cross them. If the staff was colluding, taking out the envoys, how did that benefit Abelha? The Keeper was retiring. A bit early, having only sworn in thirty years ago. Maybe for the same reason people kept disappearing. Which raised the question…
“Why hasn’t the Keeper emerged from her cave?” Naokah asked. What kind of leader could rest with all the bloodshed in her home?
“She doesn’t show herself to just anyone. Not until senior phase,” Laerte said.
“No one’s going to make it to senior phase, the rate we’re going.” Clisten, having had enough melgo, flung back a glass of cloudcane rum.
With the sun hiding behind the mountain terraces, the mugginess still clung to Naokah. If Brielle were here, she’d have gone off on another tangent about how the wind thief’s stones should’ve been raked over coals. She swallowed hard, wiped sweat from her brow, and lowered her eyelids half-mast – agreeing with her lost friend, wishing she’d been alive when there’d been wind. It had helped with a great many things, pollination, temperature stabilization, but a good, crisp breeze would help dry the humidity pasting her linens to her skin.
“Another?” Laerte asked. Sweat streamed down his back, darkening his tunic.
She nodded. Alcohol seemed the only elixir that could help numb the sharp, unabating pain. Liquid fizzed in Naokah’s goblet, cold droplets from the sweating glass biting into her fingers as Samara emerged from the lift. The suave, crisp-collared savvy didn’t greet them. Their hair was a mess, a ratty brass knot on top of their head, their eyes distant.
“Samara?” Naokah asked. “Are you…well?”
They strode to the bar between Naokah and Laerte, grabbed Naokah’s drink, and guzzled it like water. “Gather ’round.”
The four envoys, brows crinkled and sweaty as their linens, circled the savvy. Naokah’s gaze slipped to the winged bull atop the donjon. The only gargoyle facing in. A shadow passed over, and its skin writhed. A chill slinked up Naokah’s spine, and she looked away.
“Brielle hasn’t been found,” Samara said. “The sentries don’t know what to think. It’s a tragedy, what with Kjell still amidst, Dazarin dead….” They cleared their throat. “And now with Brielle missing, in the middle of the day. Unprecedented times and I’m sorry, though that doesn’t bring your friends back. We need to be more wary, more cautious—”
“No shit,” Mila said, now lucid. “Something’s been wrong since we arrived. Since even before we arrived. Abelha had no business inviting us to contend in the Praxis when you couldn’t even safeguard the future Keeper.”
Grumbles of agreement, and Samara winced. “Please—”
“She’s right,” Naokah said. “After Kjell was poisoned, Dazarin was murdered, the citadel should’ve taken greater measures to find the culprit, to keep us all safe. Instead, you questioned us, the envoys, like it’s our fault we are getting whacked off. We weren’t even here when Lenita disappeared.” Her voice grew ragged, anger barbing her words. “One of your family, as you call them, is the guilty party. Why not keep the staff locked up until you narrow down who?”
It felt cathartic to vent, to push the blame off on the staff, but as Naokah’s pulse began to slow, guilt spiked it again. Too worried about getting kicked off the isle, about confiding in the wrong person, she’d confided in no one. And where had that led her? If she’d told Brielle about the dead fox and the threat, maybe she’d have been more cautious. If Naokah had told Dazarin about the stalker, maybe he’d have laughed at her, but he might’ve also been more wary. Wasn’t she just as culpable as the citadel, if not more?
Samara’s face was now red with fury, with frustration. “I’m just as fed up as you are. Abelha has always been a sanctuary, and for these awful events to transpire? It’s absolutely shocking. But you’ve crossed a line accusing my family. Don’t do it again.”
Yet how easily you implicated the envoys, hypocrite! Naokah wanted to shout. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and jerked a nod.
Samara’s rigid posture warranted no arguing. “All right. Now, listen carefully, please. Report anything that seems off immediately. And from here on out, no one goes anywhere alone. Understood?”
Sighs and grunts, but no one objected.
“And if we wish to leave?” Clisten asked, tugging a hand through his mop of braids.
“I can’t keep you. This wasn’t what you signed up for. And I’ll understand if you wish to leave. But I don’t know what your country will think, you leaving early. Could be a great risk.”
“Svinja is a rich nation. They’ll be fine. Far better than me, if I stay. I’d rather return a coward than die a fool.”
“Must be nice,” Laerte muttered, eyes meeting Naokah’s. Unlike their Poler friend, who could return without reprimand, the others didn’t have that luxury.
“So I have Clisten leaving on a barge tonight. Anyone else?” Samara’s eyes landed on Mila, expectantly.
“No.” A spark of fight lit up Mila’s eyes, earning a look of approval from the savvy and Mids.
“Do you want to move in next to me?” Naokah whispered. It felt wrong inviting someone to sleep in Brielle’s bed. It wasn’t even cold yet. But like Samara said, they had to pair up.
Mila nodded, her jaw working. “Not shocked the Mids are staying.”
“Why’s that?” asked Laerte, feigning ignorance. He knew the answer.
“What’s there to lose when we’ve lost everything already?”
* * *
With the savvy’s instructions of having a mate, Naokah weighed whether or not to leave her chambers alone to search for clues. After dashing about the citadel in search of Brielle, not only had she learned the corridors and most of the wings, but, so tormented over losing her friend, she’d forgotten all about the hive walls. When the world was intent on crashing down around her, death by bee swarm seemed like nothing. Time was too fleeting to putter about the veranda any longer. Tonight, she’d brave the innermost workings of the citadel and face her greatest foe – her own fear.
During her frantic flight, she’d met Ettori, the chef, and Andre, the burly gardener, in one of the kitchen’s pantries. Well, not so much met. More like stumbled upon their steamy embrace beneath the shelves of poppy bread. Samara had called out to Naokah to stop, but she’d already yanked the door open. Naokah ended up retreating to the kitchen island, where sweeping, stained-glass windows domed over her, and hid awkwardly behind a ten-tiered butter cake while they dressed. Though embarrassed about being caught – in truth, she was likely more humiliated – they’d helped her search every inch of the spacious kitchen, their snarky humor mixing smoothly with the sweet, yeasty notes. The lovers couldn’t take a single step without touching each other.
She felt a sharp pain in her chest. She missed Brielle. Naokah had finally met all the staff but still felt no closer to finding her sister and friend. Neither the gardener nor the chef gave off any flickers of darkness, and besides, for the couple to premeditate murder, they’d actually have to stop holding each other for more than five seconds. No wonder meals were often served late.
With Brielle gone and the farmer indisposed – she’d have to catch up to him in the early morning before he left for the terraces – Samara remained at the top of the list for Dazarin’s death. They pulled late hours and, with almost everyone asleep, they’d be off their guard. She’d follow them. See if they did anything strange. Hopefully, she could catch them unawares and get them to explain what happened with Dazarin. The way they spoke of Lenita, finding her room empty save for blood and bees, the sorrow they’d shown, made Naokah believe they couldn’t wholly be responsible for any crime. Still, they could’ve been taking orders from someone and regretted it later. This was what she’d have to determine tonight.
Only a minor detail was holding her back: Mila. Naokah couldn’t leave her alone. She was breaking the rules already by wandering the halls at night. Should she tell Mila her plans? She probably wouldn’t volunteer to get involved, but Naokah had seen fight in her eyes tonight. Up to this point, Naokah had been trying to investigate on her own, but where had that gotten her? A lost lover and self-loathing. Would Mila help, though, and if she would, could she be trusted? Her lack of trust had flung her into this mess in the first place.
She helped Mila settle in. Arranging her worn suitcase. Stripping the sheets and fitting the bed with fresh ones. She supposed she could pose the question. What’s the worst Mila could say? After sponging clean – she was taking no chances with the tub fiend tonight – and throwing on her camisole top and mismatched bottoms, Naokah rang for some mint tea. When it arrived, she grabbed the tray and knocked on Mila’s door.
“Yes?”
“Tea?”
“Isn’t it a bit late for tea?”
“It’s never too late for tea.” Naokah took a note from Brielle’s playbook and pushed through the door before Mila could turn her away. “Besides, it’s mint. Helps calm the nerves.”
Mila snorted softly and nodded at her end table. A small lamp cast shadows over it. Two plum cushions sat beside it. She placed the tray down, poured Mila a cup, then sat on one of the cushions. Mila accepted the cup and saucer but didn’t sit. Naokah suppressed the urge to stand back up. Someone towering over her, no matter how harmless, made her uneasey.
“What’s the catch?” Mila eyed up the lime-green tea.
Naokah raised her cup in a toast then took a swig. “See? No poison.”
Mila bit back a slight smile, then sipped too. “Didn’t think there was. No, what I’m asking is why are we having tea at the twenty-first hour? We have an early morning ahead, with the Praxis. I thought you’d want to get some sleep.”
Naokah lifted a brow. “Have you been able to sleep since you arrived?”
“True. But still. You want something.”
“Cut right to it, don’t you?”
“That’s how it is in Bizou.” Mila shrugged. “Time is a commodity we never have enough of.”
Bizou had been sacked by the Razing. Without enough space for even a handful of farmers, the majority were forced to seek employment elsewhere, usually manual labor on Poler plantations or crewing crabbing ships in the east. Hence, Mila’s waiflike presence.
“Since I can’t sleep, I’ve been walking the veranda at night.”
“Why?”
“Trying to find clues about….” How much should she tell her? “The tragedies that have occurred thus far.” She slipped a hand into her pocket, fingers stroking the soft green feather. She’d picked it up before sentries had arrived. Not like they’d have been able to link it to anyone.
“You think wandering about this macabre place at night is the answer?” Mila narrowed an eye.
“Better than rolling about sleeplessly in my bed, hiding, waiting for whatever took them to take me next,” Naokah snapped, then regretted it when Mila blanched. So pale, she reminded her of the ghost girl. “Sorry. Just on edge, is all.”
“Me too.” Mila’s hand shook as she set the cup back on its saucer, spilling tea on the gold rim. “Why are you telling me this?”
“With the new rules in place, I didn’t feel right leaving you alone, you know, in here.”
“Are you asking me to accompany you?”
Naokah flinched at her bluntness. “Err, yes?”
“Why would I want to put myself in more danger?”
“Depends on how you look at it. I’d say it’s more dangerous sitting alone in here, with only the shadows and murals keeping you company.”
“I don’t think it’s safe anywhere, to be honest, but I’ll take my chances.” She padded over to her bed, pulled the ruffled comforter back, and climbed in.
“So, it’s a no.”
“I’m poor, not crazy. Make sure you lock the lavatory door behind you.”
