Antheia Botanis's Arc

Chapter 6 of 15

The bees settled on the terrace stones after Verdis walked back up the shrine steps and did not turn around. Antheia stayed on her knees by the new shoot until the vine at the top of the stair pulled back on its own. Her crown had dropped a full ring of petals. She counted them. Eleven. She swept them into the fold of her book and stood. She could not chase Verdis up those steps. Verdis had held the office three hundred years. She had held it an hour. She needed a way to stand in front of Verdis without dying in the first minute. Force would not work. Argument would not work. She had taken the seat, and no words could undo that. What she could offer was tribute. A gift shaped like respect, made by her own hands, carried by something Verdis could not refuse to look at. Antheia went down to the lowest terrace where the fountains ran. She cut stems from the plantings Zeus had left: white blossoms, seed heads, a strand of ivy the shrine had grown itself. She wove them into a ring the size of a plate. She did not use her power on any of it. The crown of seasons had to be plain work, or Verdis would read it as a claim. Then she called the bees down. They came in a gold cloud and hung above her hands. She spoke to them without ceremony. "Build me an offering. Wax. Eight cells around one. Fill the center with pollen from the first grove I planted here today." The swarm moved onto the stone and began. In an hour they left behind a hexagon comb, the outer cells sealed pale gold, the center cell open and bright with fresh dust. She lifted it. It weighed almost nothing. She climbed the steps with the wreath in one hand and the comb in the other. The shrine at the top opened onto a second garden she had not seen from below. Charred trunks stood in rows. Stone arches leaked slow fire at the seams. Small flowers pushed out of the cracks and leaned toward the center, where Verdis sat on a low bench. Nothing behind Verdis looked alive, and nothing looked fully dead. Antheia stopped at the arch and set both gifts on the threshold stone. She did not step across. "I took a seat that was still yours," she said. "I did not know. I am asking for a table between us. These are the terms of my asking." Verdis looked at the wreath. Looked at the comb. Did not stand. "Leave them. Come back at dusk. Alone. No bees." A vine slid out from under the bench and drew the offerings across the threshold without Verdis moving a hand. The gate to the burnt garden closed on its own. Antheia walked back down the steps with her hands empty and a meeting she had bought but not yet survived.