2. The Downed Hive
The Downed Hive
Ilike being out at sea. Not only is my country just beyond this sea, if you look at it on a map, it’s surrounded by two other sweeping, merging seas.
The Palace Poet once said, in some countries, the seas decorate the land.
In Rhavna, our land decorates the sea. I love the image that creates in my head.
Like Rhavna is the emerald set in a crown of diamonds.
I’m not normally so introspective. I think it’s seeing that card. It’s set me on edge. I’d love to be on my own with my thoughts.
But inconveniently, I have a younger brother.
“We need more readings from Old Mother. Something’s coming, I can feel it. What was Vikemy even talking about, anyway? People haven’t made sacrifices for us, have they?”
“He must mean Mother and Father,” I say, still rowing steadily. “When they…”
When they what? Sent us off to what could easily have been our deaths?
“When they protected us.”
Eric scoffs. “They didn’t sacrifice anything though, did they? Apart from maybe their hearts. What card did you get, by the way? I got Card of Plenty again. We’ll have our best Provision Day ever, I bet. Unless you got something bad.”
“Nothing that predicted my terrible and untimely death. So, you don’t need to worry.”
I don’t tell Eric my fortunes anymore. He gets anxious for days if either of us get a concerning one.
He had a phase not long after we got here of wanting to become a soldier, to get better Provision for us both.
It didn’t help we were so hungry all the time, back then.
But Cosmer’s departure – and lack of return – put an end to Eric’s planning, though, and I’m so glad it did.
Aside from the fact he would have been fighting against Rhavna, Eric just wouldn’t have the stomach for it.
No. Our life here is fine. The plants don’t bloom all year round and put you to sleep if you smell them too deeply, and the air isn’t filled with oversized butterflies.
There are no swans, which were always the Queen’s favourite, being Rhavna’s national animal, and sacred.
We no longer live in luxury – far, far from it.
But we have each other and Old Mother. We’re safe. And that’s all that matters to us.
I stop rowing, and we prepare our nets and lines.
But movement to my side distracts me. I turn towards it.
Back on the shore, people are rushing to get to their feet. Some are running.
Some are pointing, as if to say look up.
I look up.
And that’s when I see it, high above us.
A huge, cylindrical object, gold as a coin and smoking like a potion, is falling from the sky. Lights are flashing on it, and it’s spinning. It looks like a mechanical carousel. The kind that would be set up every year in the Palace grounds for the birthdays of the young princess.
It isn’t anything like the dragonfly-like ships I’ve seen crew rustlers come down in. This must be a ship they refer to as a hive. A home to a fleet of ships and hundreds of soldiers. It’s where they eat, sleep, work.
And it’s plummeting towards the sea.
Towards us.
Eric drops his net.
“Ara, row!” he shouts.
I grab the oars. My arms strain as I row. Everything feels as though it’s happening at twice the speed, like we’ve all caught fire.
Is this how Cosmer died? Is he at the bottom of the sea, entombed in the remains of a ship just like this one?
The Temple bell is ringing now, and watchers are swarming onto the beach, their rifles raised. Some are pulling people towards them. Some are just standing still, transfixed by the machine.
In the shallows, I don’t bother to secure the boat. Everyone is running towards the steps carved into the cliff face now, even the watchers, and I know why. Only a tidal wave can follow that. But the steps are still so far. I’m pushed by someone running past me, and I stumble.
When I straighten up, I realise Eric is no longer by my side.
“Eric?” I scream, turning three hundred and sixty degrees. “Eric?” I can see a lot of fleeing people. But not my brother.
My vision spins, and for an agonising moment, my skull is made of lead. I get this sometimes, a crushing sense that everything is out of my control, and a pain in my head that I can’t shift, and worry might one day kill me. Shooting pains in my arms. Flashes of white behind my eyes, like lightning.
I close them.
When I open them again, I’m crouching, and I’m the last person left on the beach. Everyone has made it safely to the cliff steps or is already gone. I’m still so far behind them.
How much time did I lose?
I don’t have even a second to dwell on it, as at that moment the smoking ship hits the water. I watch in horror as the machine slips beneath the sea with a crash so loud the whole beach seems to sway.
Instantly, a huge wave leaps up from the impact and roars like an open mouth towards the shoreline.
Panic seizes me. I’m back on my feet, scrambling to some rocks by the cliff.
I leap onto them just as the wave smothers the beach and slams right into the cliff face. For a moment, I’m in an island of water and pearly froth, drenched from the spray.
Slowly, the wave draws itself in again.
Out at sea, the ship is sinking deeper. Soon, only the upper decks and a flag atop a mast are still visible.
The flag, I realise, is royal blue.
And my heart sinks faster than that ship.
Because of course, of course, this is a Rhavnan ship.
I’d hoped Vikemy had been exaggerating Hevalla’s successes in battle during Sermon.
But this downed ship proves it. Despite its people having no blood magic, Hevalla is winning the war – or maybe has just won it.
My brother is still nowhere to be seen. I think – I pray – that he must have gotten away with everyone else. I can’t bear to think of the alternative.
Chunks of wood and metal are already washing up onto the sand. Other fragments of the ship are floating out in the water.
Then I notice a mound in the water, which looks different to everything else. It’s bobbing strangely. A larger, longer shape, in Rhavnan blue.
Not debris, I realise.
A body.
I see myself, as if from above, getting up off the rock. Running. Kicking off my sandals.
I throw myself into the water. Swim harder, faster than I ever have. I don’t remember reaching him, only that I do. I pull the soldier towards me, lifting his head.
I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead.
But I have to do what I can. He’s a life, and not just that, he’s Rhavnan.
My strokes are slow, clunky, but I manage to swim while dragging him behind me with one arm.
In shallow water, I support his heavy weight, hauling him backwards with my arms under his.
I lie him down on the sand the moment I reach it and see he’s a man in his maybe early twenties, in distinct soldier’s uniform.
Crouching over him, I listen hard for a breath, a heartbeat, anything, but hear only the turn of waves and calls of gulls.
I survey the beach. Not a single soul.
And I make a choice.
At once, I unbutton his blazer and rip his shirt. His chest now exposed, I lock my fingers and begin pounding his chest, which is ghost cold and wet to the bone.
It’s so solid. All muscle. It’s like trying to force life into a boulder.
But maybe that’s the best way for me to think about this. Pretend this isn’t real flesh and blood under my hands. Because if the reality hits, and I panic, it’s over.
Pain blooms all along my arms. I’m already exhausted, and my head is throbbing. That white light in my periphery – it’s like it’s getting brighter. My fingers tingle as if they’re losing blood, and I slip right off him, panting hard, my hands resting uselessly by his shoulders.
Because I don’t have the energy to do this anymore.
And maybe I’m not doing it right anyway.
Maybe I’m just killing him faster.
The sun is searing now. I feel as if I’m going to combust.
I can’t save him.
Card of the Visitor, I suddenly think.
This is my visitor. And I must keep him alive.
I will myself to be strong, and my heart to be still. Blink away the white light.
It seems to surround me instead.
I start again, working through the pain and the exhaustion and the heat and the light.
Once more. Once more.
After what feels like a thousand once mores, it happens. Water spouts from his lips and he rolls over, coughing forcefully. A miracle. A rybov, we would say, in Rhavnan. It means something wonderful. Something that may only ever happen in a lifetime, once.
I slump down, studying him from where I am. He has a stocky physique. Broad shoulders. A face of hard edges that ends in a smooth, straight jawline, and the black hair and deeply tan skin that mark him as being Rhavnan. They’re just like mine.
He’s a part of home, right here. In front of me.
I almost laugh out loud.
But then I remember where I am, and who I am. Having anything to do with a Rhavnan, let alone a Rhavnan soldier…
I’ve just saved an enemy. The worst kind of treason.
He stops coughing. Looks up, right at me.
His eyes are unusually dark for Rhavnan eyes. Mine are Hevallan – a light blue, almost grey – the only feature I inherited from my mother.
But his look like what the bottoms of oceans must look like.
For a moment, we just watch each other. Curiously, but cautiously. Like two dogs. My skin is itching oddly, like it wants to get right off me.
Then he rises quickly to his feet.
I try to move towards him. But it’s like I can’t. My thighs are planted in the sand.
“It’s all right,” I say, rushed. “I’m Rhavnan too.” I say the words in the language. They feel so forbidden, so foreign, that my voice comes out a whisper.
But he’s throwing his jacket off and patting himself down. His eyes look less like oceans depths now, and more like flint stones before they spark.
“Are you looking for something?” I ask.
Without his blazer, I can see even more of his body. The shirt I’d ripped open at his chest is wet. Clings to him. I can see the definition of every muscle.
Who is this man?
I watch as he finds a rubber ball connected with a cord to his belt, and prises it open with both hands.
A coldness creeps into my veins.
Because maybe I’ve made a mistake.
Maybe he hit his head in the fall or ingested too much water.
Maybe he’s not Rhavnan.
Maybe he is, but he’s a spy.
All I know is – and I know it now, in every fibre of my being – he’s dangerous.
I edge myself backwards. My heart is in my throat.
It’s too late.
The ball is open. And he’s pointing a gun at my head.