Silent Skies

7. Three

Warren’s feet are cold. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember the last time they were warm. He can’t feel his toes and when he pokes at them, pain shoots along his sole. It’s a strange compulsion. It hurts, but he can’t help it.

It’s been raining for three days and the damp creeps into this horrid stone room. The only window is too high for Warren to see out of, but level with the rain-slick village path. Warren didn’t know the Steward’s house had a basement until Maxen threw him in here all those months ago. Figures that Maxen would use it as a prison cell. Warren learned last year, when he was Vulkan’s captive in the Earthroot Mountain caves, that he can’t connect with his insects when he’s underground. Of course, that meant Maxen learned it too. Half Maxen’s face is covered in puckering bee-sting scars where Warren set the bumblebees on him almost two years ago. He’s in no hurry to give Warren a chance to do it again. It’s no wonder Warren’s been locked down here all winter, barely even aware what time of day it is.

Warren summons all the horrible words he ever learned from Olive and thinks them about Maxen, hoping Maxen might be able to feel his hate. But the effort is too much. He’s tired and hungry, and he runs out of hate after a few minutes. His shirt feels heavy with old sweat and the ragged remains of his pants scratch his knees. He’s lost count of his sores. He feels like a single raw nerve.

He gets to his feet, wincing at the pain. The numbness in his toes sharpens to pins and needles as he hobbles the five metres across the room to hammer on the heavy door. It’s locked. It always is.

He beats his fist against it. “Hey!” he yells. No answer. “Hey! I’m hungry! And can I have a blanket?”

There’s a moment’s silence, then someone on the other side of the door swears and shuffles off. Warren sighs, leans his back against the wet stone wall and slides to the floor, hugging his knees. The cold has settled into his bones and it’s going to take ages to get warm, even if they do bring a blanket. At this rate, he’ll get sick and die before Maxen needs him to talk to the bees. Serve Maxen right, that would. But Warren doesn’t want to die.

The thought sends a flash of panic through him and he’s on his feet again, beating the door, screaming.

This time, there really is no answer. No swearing, no shuffle of feet. There’s no one there. They don’t care.

Warren wipes his eyes and feels how grimy his skin is. They barely give him enough water to drink, let alone wash with. The dirt’s probably embedded into his skin now. Aunt Bell will have a fit when she sees him.

That thought prompts a small laugh, a flicker of hope. When. Because Solma will come. He knows it as clearly as he knows the sun will rise, and the sky is blue, and the bees are back. She’ll never give up. She’ll burn the world, or save it, to reach him.

But it’s been months. A whole, long, cruel winter with biting cold and little sun. He’s growing thinner, weaker, paraded round the village every so often so Maxen can boast that he’s brought the Beekeeper home. Warren is no more than a tool in his vile politics.

The worst of it is, Warren sees the hope in their eyes. These people he’s known all his life don’t see him as little Warren El Yuen, anymore. He’s The Beekeeper. The miracle kid who can talk to insects. Not a boy. A symbol. And they don’t care he’s cold and hungry. They just need him to live until spring so he can Whisper the bees into doing what Maxen wants. So Sand’s End can get rich.

Because never mind the rest of Alphor, never mind the future, if Maxen gets what he wants.

Footsteps sound outside and Warren springs to his feet, fists clenched. Whoever’s coming, they’d better be bringing a blanket.

The door creaks open and a small figure, taller than Warren, slips inside. A quick scan tells Warren there is no blanket and his heart sinks.

“Where’s the blanket?” he demands, hating how his voice croaks.

The figure steps into the light and Warren shudders. The boy before him has a messy mop of black hair to match the Gatra-black uniform he’s wearing. He has no weapons. He doesn’t need them. His fringe is swept aside to reveal a flame tattoo inked above one eyebrow. His eyes sparkle violet in the meagre light and a sneer twists his lips. Ignis. The younger Fire Maker.

Warren remembers this boy burning half a forest last summer. Conjuring fire with nothing but his hands, laughing as it engulfed everything.

But he also remembers the boy Ignis had pretended to be last spring. Clumsy little Ig, eager to please but always getting it wrong. A boy Warren had considered a friend. A boy who’d never existed.

“What do you want?” Warren growls. He raises a fist, as if to punch.

Ignis laughs. “I don’t want nothing,” he says. “I’m checking the room. In case you’re planning on trying anything.”

Warren frowns. “A Gatra normally does that,” he says. Ignis throws him a withering stare and gestures pointedly at his uniform. He marches over to the pallet and kneels, flicking his finger upwards. A flame bursts to life at its tip. Warren jumps. He knew Ignis could do that, of course, but seeing it still reminds him of the burning glade. The bodies of charred insects. He shakes his head to rid himself of the image.

Ignis scours the stone walls, shakes the moldy sheets, and scans the floor. Apparently satisfied that Warren isn’t hiding anything untoward, he turns to face his prisoner. Warren notices he doesn’t extinguish the fire from his finger. Instead, he opens his hand and lets the fire spread across his palm. He takes one, menacing step towards Warren.

“We gotta go,” he says. “Now.”

“But—”

Warren wants to cry. Is nobody listening? He can barely feel his fingers and his feet ache. At this rate, they’ll find his stone-cold corpse huddled in the remains of those moldy sheets tomorrow. Doesn’t Maxen care?

“I need a blanket,” he insists. Ignis glares.

“Like I care.”

Anger flares in Warren then. He’s too cold, too tired, too desperate to deal with this boy’s taunts. It’s all wrong. He misses his sister, and all he’s asking for is a stupid blanket!

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s stormed towards Ignis, ready to push him. For a moment, surprise shines in Ignis’ eyes, but then he dodges aside. Warren loses his balance, falling across the pallet. His arms whirlwind to find his balance and he catches Ignis’ flaming hand with his elbow. Heat sears up his arm.

“i***t!” Ignis yells.

The fire from Ignis’ hand catches and spreads up Warren’s sleeve. Warren feels the heat of it tighten his skin. He cries out, but his flailing only makes the flames worse.

Ignis curses. He throws out his hand, fingers splayed, and makes a motion, as if drawing the fire to him. Immediately, the heat on Warren’s arm cools. He sees the fire sucked from his clothing in a glowing orange rope towards Ignis’ hand. Ignis shudders as his palm absorbs the fire. He flexes his fingers.

“Well, that was dumb,” he says. “You could’a got hurt.”

Warren reddens as he gets to his feet. His sleeve is charred and now there’s a big hole in it from wrist to elbow. Great.

“I never knew you could do that,” he grumbles.

Ignis glares. “Useless waste of power,” he says. “Dja hates it.”

Warren says nothing, just searches Ignis’ face. His eyes snag on the constellation of pale scars across Ignis’ cheekbone. Bee stings. Warren’s fault. He’d called his bees to sting Ignis, to distract him, so Solma could save their friends. Warren should feel satisfied at the sight of those marks. But he doesn’t.

Ignis catches him looking and glares. “You’re welcome, then,” he grumbles.

“Thanks,” Warren concedes, lowering his eyes. “Please,” he begs. “Can I just have a blanket?”

There’s a long pause. Ignis shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not now,” he says. “Maxen sent me to get you. The bees are waking up. He needs them working.”

Warren’s scowl deepens. “If he needs me so much,” he says, “He can come tell me himself.”

Ignis’ sneer disappears. In a flash, he’s grabbed Warren’s upper arm. The skin there is still tender from the fire and Warren cries out. Ignis snarls.

“You don’t got a choice, y’know,” he says, baring his teeth like an animal. “C’mon.”

He drags Warren to the door, not caring when Warren falls and grazes his knee on the stone.

“Get up!”

Warren’s lost all his bravado. His heart stutters. He wants to cry but that seems pointless. He stumbles after Ignis as the older boy hauls him into a narrow hallway, past two teenage Gatra and up some narrow, stone steps.

Warren feels carpet under his feet and knows he’s now in the main part of the Steward’s house. Maxen’s house. But Ignis doesn’t stop. They head down a corridor lit with electric lights—it’s the only house in the village with solar panels—and towards the open front door. Warren struggles but Ignis shakes him into submission. Warren doesn’t have the strength to fight. Not really.

And the truth is, he wants to see his bees. He wants to hear their soft tremolo, sense their scent-language, connect his mind with them.

He’s missed them so much.

Outside, the cool spring air makes Warren gasp. He fills his lungs with freshness instead of the dank air from the basement. He follows Ignis, catching his feet on loose stones and gravel. The day is grey. Although it’s not raining, there’s a dampness to the air that refreshes Warren’s grimy skin. Ignis pulls Warren down the path from the Steward’s house and into the main village, where haphazard, mismatched houses cluster together with clothes lines strung between them. It’s early, still. The Fei and Oritch workers are emerging for the day’s work. They stare as Ignis drags Warren past, their eyes lighting with hope. A Fei worker tips his straw hat at Ignis. His grey uniform, designed for working the fields, is already covered in dirt. The blue-clad Oritch workers head to the orchards. The Gatra are out in force as well, with pistols and knives in their belts, rifles slung over their shoulders and a mean look in their eyes. They prowl the streets, calling the other castes to work.

Warren frowns. The Gatra are supposed to be protectors, not enforcers. But it seems Maxen is using them to keep the villagers under control.

Those not able to work the fields—the Aldren elder caste—take up places on porches, ready to care for the Yuen—the children too young to work—or commence the tasks needed to keep the village running. A few settle with needle and thread to mend clothes, or set to whittling weapons or fixing tools. Yuen scamper between the houses, waiting to be wrangled by parents or minders. Warren watches them longingly. They’re too young to understand how dangerous the world is. With no caste color, they’re not tied to any responsibility. Sure, their clothes are patchy hand-me-downs, but why should they care? They’re free. At least until they’re old enough to head out with their parents to work.

It seems a lifetime since Warren was that carefree. He’s not Yuen anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. He’s a Beekeeper, now. His responsibility weighs heavier than anyone’s.

Warren sniffs, fighting the shivers that wrack his body. He looks up and meets an old woman’s eye. A shock goes through him as he realizes it’s Gerta. He hasn’t seen her for months, not since she met him being dragged into the village by the Fire Makers. She’s sitting on an old bench outside one of the Fei houses, watching a couple of toddlers tumbling in the grass. She’s older, thinner, with more wrinkles and even fewer teeth. She’s not smiling, either, which is unusual. Warren remembers Gerta smiling a lot before all this happened. She might be old, but she’s always been tough. Always able to find joy in the smallest things.

Now, though, she holds his gaze, and there’s sadness in her eyes. She nods at Warren, and Warren feels as if there’s more than a simple greeting in the gesture. There’s an unspoken solidarity. He imagines her voice, what she’d say if she was able.

Don’t give up, boy. There’s always hope.

Warren nods in return and the corners of Gerta’s mouth twitch upwards. She struggles off the bench and grabs her cane.

“Guess that’s my cue,” she mumbles. Warren frowns.

He’s about to ask what she means but Ignis feels Warren slowing down and tugs him sharply. He stumbles.

“Hurry up!” Ignis snaps.

Warren doesn’t argue. Ignis is short-tempered today. Usually, the older boy enjoys lauding it over his prisoner. Today, he’s distracted and irritable. Warren watches Ignis’ face and see his violet eyes darting. Something’s wrong.

Warren turns back to Gerta but she shakes her head. Warren bites down on his questions.

Gerta follows as Ignis hauls Warren down the path winding to the west. The houses and their crowd of workers fall away and Warren stares at the glasshouses ahead. He was never allowed round here as a Yuen, though he snuck out with a few friends, years ago, when he didn’t know any better. Glass is hard to come by in Alphor, and difficult to make. Only a few villages still have the knowledge, so the fact that Sand’s End has five of these structures, all made of glass, is a point of pride. Warren frowns as he stares at the structures. He’s certain he remembers at least one was smashed in a raid two years ago. But there, standing before him, are five glass buildings, intact. The precious plants they house are a burst of green against the grey day.

Fixing it must have cost Maxen a fortune. Warren’s stomach tightens. If he’s got that kind of wealth, now, it’s because other Stewards are paying him. It’s because Maxen is the only Steward with insects and a means to control them.

It’s because of Warren.

As they draw closer to the glasshouses, Warren hears that tremolo he’s missed all winter. The industrious buzz of waking bees. His breath catches and he quickens his step. Their scent-language drifts through his mind, waking parts of him that have been dormant for too long. He needs to be with them. It’s where he belongs.

Nestled between two glasshouses, Warren sees two boxy structures, almost as tall as he is. One leans slightly, the other stands proud. Both have slit openings at the base, leading out onto a short wooden platform. Warren’s eyes widen as he sees hundreds of tiny bodies clambering over each other, scurrying across the platforms.

Honeybee hives.

How did Maxen get these? How does he know to house them like this? Warren’s step falters, and Ignis drags him forward.

Warren throws a questioning glance at Gerta but now the old woman won’t look at him. She’s staring at the ground. Are those tears in her eyes?

“Where did he find these?” Warren demands, pointing towards the hives. Gerta chews her lip.

“He used to have three,” she starts to say, “but—”

Ignis makes a sharp sound and ignites his hand. “Shut up!” he growls. Gerta glares but clamps her mouth shut.

Warren frowns, but a new insect-scent prickles his senses. He closes his eyes as that familiarity wafts over him. Buff-tails. They’ve made a nest inside a strange structure Maxen’s had half buried beside the honeybee hives. It’s a wide, shallow dome with a long, tubular entrance. There’s no activity at the entrance, but Warren knows the young queen will be incubating her first brood in there. If he sends his scent out far enough, his mind brushes against hers. He frowns. That makes no sense. It’s too early in the year for her to have chosen a nest site. And why would she choose here, of all places? Beside two honeybee hives that could rob her nest?

Behind the honeybee hives, there’s a huge wedge of rough wood shoved vertically into the ground. It’s wreathed in chrysalides, and a few newly hatched butterflies. Warren’s mouth falls open. He recognises the species. Peacock butterflies, like the ones his friend Addie can Whisper to. It was Addie’s capture, last year, that he and his friends were trying to solve. Her butterflies were dying without her and, now that Warren looks, he doesn’t think these ones are faring much better.

“Why aren’t they flying away?” he demands. “And why,” he adds, pointing to the shallow dome of the bumblebee nest, “is she in there? She shouldn’t be nesting yet. It’s too early.”

Denial swirls in his mind. It’s wet this morning, after all. The air is heavy with moisture. Maybe the butterflies are huddling together until the clouds pass. Maybe the bumblebee queen isn’t laying yet, perhaps she’s just sought shelter to wait out the rain.

But Ignis shatters that. “Chemical barrier, obviously,” he mumbles.

Tears sting Warren’s eyes. The butterflies’ haphazard language wafts over him and he feels their frustration. Chemical boundaries are how the village controls wild animals, discouraging them from entering the village. The substance produces smells that either draw or deter animals and the Gatra put it in a ring around the village. But Warren knows insects talk through scent. A chemical boundary will be twice as strong for them as for other animals. He can feel it now.

He feels how the chemical ring around these insects is small, limiting them to this tiny circle of land until Maxen’s ready to use them.

Warren wrenches his arm free of Ignis’ grasp. “You have to open the chemical barrier,” he says. Ignis rolls his eyes and makes to grab him again, but Warren dodges away. “They’ll starve.”

Ignis clicks his tongue and points to the little lavender shrub and a few barely open crocuses nestled behind the honeybee hives. Warren’s eyes widen.

“That?” he demands. “That’s not enough! You can’t feed all these insects on one plant! It won’t work—”

Ignis moves so quickly, Warren barely has time to register it. The older boy snaps forward, cuffing Warren around the head. Warren yelps, raising his arms in defence. Ignis grabs his wrist and drags him forward again. There’s an urgency to him now, frustration gleams in his eyes.

Gerta hobbles after them, her cries of protest carrying on the air.

“You leave him alone!”

Ignis ignores her. He keeps hold of Warren’s arm. Warren wriggles, fighting all the way, but Ignis is strong. He throws Warren down at the entrance of the first glasshouse. Warren winces as his other knee grazes. He pushes himself up onto all fours.

Gerta finally catches up with them. She rounds on Ignis, clearly intending to give him an earful. Ignis scowls and his fingertips begin to smoke.

“Don’t start, old woman,” he growls. “Or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Gerta snarls, pushing her face close to his. Ignis bares his teeth and lifts his hand. Flames dance across his palm. Gerta bristles and Warren stares in dismay as they square up to each other.

The glasshouse creaks open and they both fall still. Someone steps out. Warren stiffens. He recognises those rough-toed shoes, the hems of pants that don’t bear any caste color. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Get up,” says Maxen’s voice. “There’s no time for stupid games.”

Warren feels his face heat and he pushes himself up, too shocked to resist when Ignis grabs his arm. The sound of honeybees intensifies and a few of the butterflies flick their wings. They can sense his distress. Warren tries to quiet himself, but he can’t. His pulse is a maelstrom, his breath gone. He feels blood rush to his face. Maxen’s had this effect on him since he first returned to Sand’s End.

The gentle, soft-spoken boy he’d known two years ago has changed. Those pale-blue eyes that had once looked at his sister with such love, now glare at him with disdain. He stands tall, a pistol at his hip. He’s not in Gatra colors anymore. With his father still comatose from those bee stings Warren gave him, Maxen is Steward, now.

And he didn’t escape the onslaught of Warren’s bees that summer, either. Half his face is a livid red, puckered with scars. His left eye doesn’t open properly and the ear on that side of his head is damaged and misshapen. Warren lets himself feel guilty about that for a moment. It had been his bees, after all, that attacked Maxen and his father.

But the guilt doesn’t last long.

Maxen smiles. It isn’t a nice smile.

“How’s your accommodation, kid?” he asks. His good eye gleams. He already knows the answer, but Warren can’t help himself.

“Rubbish,” he says.

Maxen chuckles. “Well, if you do well today, perhaps I’ll try to make it more comfortable. Or,” and his face darkens, “I can make it a whole lot worse.”

Warren forces all his hate into his glare. Maxen is unmoved.

“You can let go of him, Ignis,” Maxen says. “Warren’s got work to do.”