Lyra Velishar's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Lyra Velishar pulled a loaf from her oven and knew before she tasted it. Flat. The crust shone, the grain was good, but the flavor died on her tongue. She wanted to bake the finest goods the twilight forest could give. For that she needed sweetness, and no fungus or grain she milled could hold it. Her skin flickered a dull green. She set the loaf down and made up her mind. She had heard the talk. A keeper had moved bees into the forest edge. Lyra crossed the glowing river and the dark lake to find her. Stands of hives stood in neat rows, finished in warm wood and amber resin, their runic marks glowing soft. The air hummed. A tall figure in black scale armor worked among them, a mesh veil over her face, a smoker puffing pale clouds in one hand. Béyla Frostcomb did not look up. She pried a frame loose with a curved bone tool. Comb dripped crimson honey over her glove. "Stand still," she said. "They read fear." Lyra stilled her glow to a faint blue. She watched honey run down the frame. She had tasted bland bread for three seasons. Here was the thing she lacked, held in a keeper's hand. "I bake," Lyra said. "Bread, cakes, loaves. I need honey to bring out the flavor. I have none to trade but what I make." Béyla lowered the frame into its box. She lifted her veil. Her dark eyes measured Lyra for a long moment. "I keep bees," she said. "I do not keep an oven. I eat what I can carry." She wiped her glove clean. "Show me." Lyra had come ready. She unwrapped a braided loaf, glazed with the little sweetness she owned, and a dense grain cake flecked dark purple. Béyla broke the loaf with her hands. She chewed slow. She tried the cake next. "The grain is honest," she said. "It wants more honey than you have." "Then give me the honey," Lyra said. "I will bake all you need. Every loaf, every cake, for as long as the hives give. You carry none of it. I carry all of it." Béyla set down the cake. She pulled a jar from among the hives, deep-blue glass, the honey inside bright as river light stores from a distance shore, Gongo Palm honey. She pressed it into Lyra's hands. “New unknown honey will come from this land,” Béyla said. "Fair," she said. "Bread for honey. Both ways, equal." She closed the subject with a flat nod and turned back to her frames. Lyra held the jar against her chest. Her skin ran gold at the edges. She had her sweetener now, and the bland bakes were behind her. But the weight in her hands told her the harder part had just begun. She had promised to feed a keeper and, baked goods for honey, for as long as the bees held out.