#empiropedia

This zine will require you to suspend your disbelief throughout its duration, as it was made to resemble an in-universe history book written by a certain archaeologist (wink wink).

THE APIARIST'S DIARY

Many times before have I readied the bees to receive their master, the King. Not a week goes by without his arrival to inspect the hives, for the quality of their wax is one of the most sacred and important things in our empire. Copper is what we trade with the world, but candles are what we hold close to our hearts, and a candle made from impure wax would disrespect the death it is intended to honour.

Every day I sweep the floors and trim the vines, plucking a few of their choicest glowing berries. These little delights grow soft and plump when placed in a bowl of cool water, so should the King be in need of refreshment they will provide both food and drink for him in one sweet bite. And, if he does not visit the apiary on that day, why then my children have a treat after their evening meal.

A jug of water from the fountain outside cools the copper inlays in the floor, and a regular dousing of it - especially at the sun’s zenith - keeps the apiary’s temperature more tolerable and the bees content. I keep a close watch on the water channel surrounding the inlays, for as long as it is full the bees will take water back to their hives and fan it with their wings to cool the air. Remarkable creatures are my myriad little friends.

Each day is much the same; the comforting constant of routine and the drowsy hum of my charges as they move between flower and hive. I, too, sometimes hum as I work, keeping time throughout my day to the rhythm of the bees.

Yesterday morning I rose just before the sun, broke my fast with bread and a little spiced camel milk, and then took my usual route across the bridge, pausing for a few minutes to take in and enjoy the sight of the riverside gardens. At that hour the air is still fresh from the night, and a brief stop there will waken even the sleepiest of eyes.

The pylons glowed with their gentle warmth, sentinels at each end of the bridge that leads into the city’s heart. But a greater glow lay beyond, and I paused again to look up at the Vigil, my spirits lifted as I watched the gentle flicker of candles and the serene drift of lanterns.

Many hurry past the Vigil as they go about their day, the glory of its light outshone by the sun. But in the darker hours of dusk and night, it is as if its presence is remembered by all, and footsteps are slowed, and eyes are raised to find a special candle or lantern here or there.

A new candle now rests there, alone and apart from the rest. And this candle is dyed a deep, dusky pink; a colour that has never before been used at the Vigil.

Aye. Yesterday began much the same as any other day. But it ended like no other day ever had.

The King arrived late in the afternoon, much beyond his usual hour, for his visits tend to occur in the early morning. Indeed, I was caught unawares as I heard quiet footsteps on the copper inlays, and I turned to see him standing there in full armour. His shield was battered, its Pixandrian flag tattered and rent in multiple places, as though something had clawed or slashed at it.

I bowed my head, touching the tips of my fingers to my forehead. Usually when I rise from this deference, I see a smile and a nod from him, but not that day. He was stillness in the form of a man, and I realised that this was not merely a visit to inspect the hives or check the quality of the wax.

This was a visit in the wake of a battle.

Hopeful of assuaging the hollow look in his eyes with an act of kindness, I reached for the bowl into which I had placed the finest berries from the vines, but before I had fully picked it up, he raised a hand to negate my offer.

“I bear news,” was all he said, and his voice was but a hoarse murmur.

The bees of Pixandria must be told of all news, both good and ill, that befalls the empire. This has long been a courtesy afforded to them by our people, as the bees give us so much and hold an honoured role in our society. Some may view this custom as mere superstition, but neither I nor the King would risk angering or upsetting the bees, for fear that they will grow sickly and die, or desert their hives and leave us with no way to honour our dead at the Vigil.

I bowed my head once more and then turned to address the bees, whose drowsy hum seemed to fade, as if in readiness to listen.

“Little friends, your Master has news to tell you,” I said. “Pay heed to his words, and no matter what they are, do not leave us.”

When I next looked at the King, he had lowered his head and seemed to be summoning… I will not write ‘courage’ for I have never known him to be weak-hearted. Perhaps he merely needed a moment to consider his words, for he then walked to the first hive and bent down to it.

He knocked gently on the front of the hive to summon the bees’ attention, placed his lips close to it, and murmured a few words. As he finished speaking, he plucked from his belt a small piece of cloth that had been dyed a deep dusky pink - the colour of mourning worn by our people - and he draped it atop the hive.

The hive fell silent.

He moved to the next, bending to knock gently upon it and murmur the same words before placing atop it the mourning cloth.

That hive, too, fell silent.

Quietly, he moved around the apiary, and as he did so the distress and grief on his face grew. I did not know what words he spoke to the bees, but it surely must have been terrible news, as each hive grew quiet as he put its bees into mourning.

He reached the final hive, which I was close enough to that I could finally hear his words.

“Little bees,” he murmured as he placed the mourning cloth atop the hive. “The guardian at the end of all things who holds the world safe is dead. And… mine was one of the hands who brought her down. I must go away, but I beg that you stay and do not desert my people.”

With those final words, he straightened and looked directly at me for the first time, knowing that I had heard his confession. Not a word did he speak as he stared at me, but in his eyes I saw not only distress and grief, but also shame. He turned and walked out of the apiary, and I hastened after him, watching as he walked away from Pixandria toward the setting sun. With one hand, he wrenched his helmet from his head, throwing it to the sands as he strode with a wretched determination away from his people.

~~~

My contribution was based on the very real old custom of 'telling the bees' which - given the importance of those little creatures to this empire of copper and candles, felt like an apt thing to write about.