Chapter 52
Months pass, marked only by the march of day and night outside the windows. What I assume must be the rainy season arrives, with cataclysmic storms stronger than any I’ve ever seen, filled with great strikes of lightning and roars of thunder that shake the very stones under us.
Khephnes gradually relaxes in my presence, and I discover a wry wit beneath the bitterness. But though I spend most of my time with him, Bianca is my truest friend among the captives.
She refuses to stop learning, to stop trying to discover the why behind all of this. But in quiet moments, she talks about her little son, Cosimo, and about the room where she does her painting.
“The Swarm seem to have lost their own skill at painting,” she remarks one day. “You’ve noticed the clumsy repairs to the older murals, I assume?”
It was one of the first things that came to my attention the day I was stolen and herded down the corridor to this room. “Yes, though I haven’t given it much thought.”
“It drives me mad.” She laughs at herself.
“Of all the things to be angry about. The murals are beautiful, skillful…it reminds me of the time when Cosimo slipped away from his nursemaid and got into my studio. He ‘helped out’ with the painting on my easel. The whole commission was ruined, and I had to start over.” The mirth drains from her mind-voice.
“I was so angry…why did I care so much about a stupid painting? I wish I could take back the angry words I said to him. I...I miss him. So much.”
My studies with Khephnes proceed apace. Thankfully, I’m a quick student, so he doesn’t make good on his threat to quit and go back to window gazing.
I wonder how it will affect him when—if—no, when—I go back.
Will he be glad he took the time, or even more bitter because his only distraction is gone?
The crumbling paper and terrible ink make writing hard, but we manage.
As I study, I sometimes flip the thick papyrus over and try to decipher the original text.
Other than the first paper that Khephnes struggled to read, they’re mostly dry summaries of treaties.
It seems the Swarm once had four warring factions, with allies becoming enemies, then switching back again.
There’s no evidence of warfare now. At least we don’t have to worry about being slaughtered by an invading force.
“Where did these old records come from?” Bianca asks one day, as I tell her about this fragment of the Swarm’s history.
“A scribe, I assume.”
“But why would a scribe have this sort of thing lying around?” Her trunk strobes with excitement. “What if there’s an archive? Or a library? Do you think we can get access to it? We might find something that tells us what they’re up to. And what they’re doing with our bodies in our own times.”
I’ve been trying very hard not to think about that. What would I find if—when!—I returned to my own time? What could a creature as inhuman as the Swarm possibly get up to in my shape?
“We should ask the guards,” I say. “Or I will—they know I’ve been learning to read.”
Plan in mind, I go to the guard who’d brought us the writing supplies. Though the chitinous bodies of the Swarm had seemed all alike to me at first, over time the variations in color patterns and shell shape between individuals have become clear.
“Excuse me,” I say, and wonder just how my thoughts translate in its mind, “I’m curious—where did the paper and ink come from?”
“The archive,” it replies promptly.
Just as Bianca had suspected. “I want to learn more about your people. Can someone escort me there?”
It makes a low buzzing sound with its shell. “No. The archive is forbidden to you.”
I don’t want to do anything that might lead to restrictions on the few freedoms we have, so I retreat to Khephnes. Bianca joins me, and we tell him our conjectures.
“You said you’ve been given more freedoms since you’re stuck here,” I finish. “They might let you go into the archive, even if they won’t allow me.”
“I don’t see the point,” he says. “You’re going to forget it all anyway.” He looks at me. “But what else do I have to do?”
He isn’t gone long. “Apparently I’m not allowed to visit the archive either.” Khephnes taps his trunk thoughtfully against his torso. “I wonder why? Are they afraid we’ll destroy records or make some other kind of trouble?”
Bianca clicks her forelegs together. “Then we’re just going to have to break in somehow.”