Chapter 25 Buzz
Chapter twenty-five
Buzz
“Welcome to Nawie.”
I stand at the foot of the Mogila Mountain, welcoming the buzzing King of Bees into my domain. He is large, two heads taller than me, his robust frame crawling with insects. A pair of violet eyes flashes in the hive and is gone before I discern their expression.
Not that it would do me any good. He’s the most beastly of the gods, more animal than person, but he is also immensely powerful.
“I have created an entire level for you underneath, though you are welcome to wander wherever you please. Just know that you can be a target up here. We’ve fended off multiple attacks. The rarog is a frequent offender.”
His body comes apart slowly, growing thinner, fuzzier, as the insects spread out. Then it snaps back, his outline tightening. I grind my teeth behind my pleasant smile. I dislike the King of Bees and find him ridiculous, but alas, war breeds strange bedfellows.
“We will stay outside but obscure ourselves.” He speaks in a susurrating voice that reminds me of murmuring streams and the whispering of trees.
“Good. We monitor the island at all times, so if an attack occurs, my troops will come flying. Would you like to see Nawie now?”
“We would like to meet the woman you keep here. Our paths crossed once.”
My hackles rise, and I almost lose my smile as possessive jealousy heats my chest. Of course, he wants to see Jaga, the prophesied mortal who’ll end the war. Then my mood lifts as I imagine what she will do to him if he offends her.
“By all means. Follow me.”
I spread out my shadows to check for enemies, and when I’m certain we’re safe, I make a doorway in the side of the mountain. Enormous gates fall open with a clang and melt back into thick walls as soon as we pass through.
I lead him down the main corridor, one with fake windows that show what’s outside at all times. Gems glimmer here and there on the walls, and souls drift past, faint and translucent, stopping to gossip when they see us.
“Who’s that?”
“A bee-man!”
“Don’t be silly, don’t you see the beetles and dragonflies? Is he a god of all the crawlies?”
“He’s the King of Bees, you morons. He rules the woods.”
“And how would you know?”
“I was a huntsman. I prayed to him every day. Blessings and a thousand thanks, my god.”
“Yes, he is the King of Bees,” I say with a nod. “Better go and tell everyone. You are the first to see him here.”
All souls crowding the corridor float away quickly, eager to pass on the news to everyone who doesn’t know yet.
We continue in relative peace, and I lead the King through shortcuts, some of them known to all, others just mine and Nyja’s.
We pass a few corridors, some tall, some squat, crossing through a spacious cavern with many carved columns holding up a ceiling shaped like the ribcage of an enormous animal, and briefly walk through a meadow where nawkas play as children in an everlasting summer.
Nawie is limitless and shaped by magic. I am proud every time I show it to a newcomer, but the King of Bees reacts with nothing but faint buzzing, and my mood sours to the point of brusqueness.
I try to engage him in conversation, but he remains silent until we reach the Hall of Fires.
Jaga stands up from a comfortable chair made of dark wood and rubies.
It looks like a throne, one I’m seeing for the first time, and I love how queenly it is.
I’d love for her to embrace her power with total acceptance.
“You have bled your fealty on our thorns,” the King susurrates, and Jaga eyes him with an inscrutable expression.
“We’re allies now and I should be nice, correct?” she asks through our bond.
“No, I should be nice. You can tell him to fuck off if he annoys you.”
She doesn’t reply to my rather hot-headed words, and doesn’t follow my suggestion.
“I did,” she tells him with an aloof expression. “And you let a poroniec almost kill me.”
The King undulates, the buzzing growing louder before he settles back into his original shape. His violet eyes flash in the fuzzy chaos, trained on Jaga.
“Kill you? We knew you could not die.”
I look up sharply, and Jaga presses her lips together, her eyes flinty. “How did you know?”
“Your first toll,” he buzzes. “We saw it drain you completely, yet you came out of the river alive. We knew you were stronger than any other creature in our woods. Apart from us.”
“I’d bet my left hand that you’re more powerful than him now,” I tell her.
“Not the right one? You don’t have much faith in me.”
“I need the right one to jerk off in case I’m wrong since you won’t fuck me, Your Poppiness.”
“I said no endearments.”
“Fine. Slimy entrail girl.”
Jaga’s lips quirk, and she suppresses a smile, her gaze briefly locking with mine. Then she looks away, her expression haughty.
“I am happy you have joined us, King of Bees,” she says with a small nod. “Not that I have much say in the matter. I am simply an interested bystander.”
“You’re my queen,” I say tightly. “And you will say whatever you please, now and during every war council we hold.”
She shoots me a frustrated look. “Please, stop. We’re supposed to be allies, no more.”
“Fuck allies. Be my wife.”
“Goodbye.”
She excuses herself and leaves, her hips sinuous with confidence. I curse myself viciously in the privacy of my mind, because I’ve evidently fucked up again. I told Jaga the truth before. It’s much easier to be smart and in control when trying to manipulate a woman I do not care about.
With her, I’m always rushing. The King of Bees made me jealous, his interest in her instantly pushing me to make my claim. If I were a werewolf, I’d piss on her publicly so everyone would know she’s mine.
I might piss on her yet, I’m that desperate.
“Don’t you dare,” Jaga hisses, and I realize she must have picked up that idea from my mind. The bond’s growing stronger, and fast.
I’ll be able to see her dreams soon.
“Nyja!” I call, and she comes, welcoming the King of Bees with much more warmth than me and Jaga combined. I leave them to it and go to the mortal world to find Dola.
There are many villages, towns, and settlements strewn between the mountain ranges in the south and the seas in the north, some hidden deep in the taiga, others nestled in sunlit valleys.
Many children are born in these lands, more than four hundred a day, and one of the rodzanicas is present at every newborn’s crib.
I send my shadows far and wide, finding a large town with a few women in labor.
I look in on every one of them, my shadows skulking in while I remain hidden. One of the women is almost done, a sweaty, trembling girl no older than eighteen. Her equally young husband paces outside the house, swigging large gulps of vodka straight from the bottle.
It’s a small but neat dwelling, and I hover above the roof, looking out for one of the rodzanicas while listening to the labor’s progress.
This woman giving birth is similar to Jaga, with red hair that looks darker when dampened with sweat, and long, scrawny limbs. She’s younger, though, and unremarkable. There is no magic in her, no hunger for power and the unknown.
A loud scream of horrible pain comes from the birthing room. The sound of a meaty slap follows, and I rush in to see what happened.
“Stop whining!”
The crying redhead quietens with a pitiful sob as her cheek reddens from impact, her enormous belly hard and taut with another contraction. A large, ham-fisted woman with a ruddy complexion stands by her bedside with her hands on her hips.
“You young ones are always so loud. Gives me a headache. See if you have the strength to scream when you’ve pushed out ten babes like I did! No, don’t give her a drink. It will only make it last longer.”
There’s another redheaded woman in the room, not much older than the new mother. She hangs her head meekly at the older woman’s chiding words. I settle in to watch, mildly intrigued by the violence.
When my eyes stray to the bed, though, and I see the redhead’s eyes are green, I cannot help but think of Jaga.
She would have never hit a birthing woman or told her to be quiet. If she were here, I suspect she would have given the slapping midwife a lesson. Maybe I could do that, too, and win her approval.
I would have never stepped in just for myself, since it’s neither amusing nor significant. These mortals are all broken, Perun’s souls twittering in their chests.
But Jaga cares.
I sneak my shadows closer, almost wrapping them around the legs of the red-faced matron. I consider what to do. If she drops dead, it won’t help anyone. But there is a poison, one of my inventions, that makes people agreeable and obedient for a few hours before they pass on.
I prick her ankle and push the poison into her bloodstream with a muttered spell.
“As foretold,” a quiet, melancholy voice murmurs by my side.
I turn, pleased to see Dola. Her sisters don’t like me much, but she and I have an understanding. She knows all my secrets and keeps them faithfully.
Her face is as pale as ever, drawn and thin from the lack of sunlight.
Her thick, dark hair is gathered in two braids tied with red ribbons.
She wears a white dress, and her eyes are tired and lined with shadows.
She hates the job Perun forces her to do.
She once told me it’s like branding cattle—mundane and demeaning for everyone involved.
“Foretold?” I ask. “Let me guess: you knew I’d be here.”
She gives me a nod so small, I might have easily overlooked it if I didn’t know her so well. “Dead in three hours, five minutes, and forty-three seconds,” she says, pointing at the matron. “Poisoned by a god.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. My antlers almost scrape the ceiling, even though I’m hunched to prevent that. The mortals don’t see us, of course, their magical senses blunt and useless.
“Did you give her that fate?” I ask. “Were you feeling humorous that day? Because you have to admit it’s funny. I actually am the god of poisons. What are the odds?”