Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

rest, she slept a dreamless, peaceful sleep. The Commander, understanding at last that he would receive no answer, went out into the city streets to rally his loyal supporters: young men with golden hair just like his; with voices that were just like his; with arrogant hearts that were just like his.

“Listen to me, men!” he cried. “It is I, your Commander! Now is our time to take the throne! I can be king! We can be kings!”

But without his blue sash, the Commander looked just like every other angry young man trying to make his voice heard. No one listened: no one cared. Everyone was calling out:

“I can be king! We can be kings!”

“You idiots!” cried the Commander. “I am your King. Can’t you see that?”

But even he was uncertain now: without his blue sash, there was nothing to make him special. Still protesting, he found himself swept away from the palace gates and into the heart of the city. Soon, he was lost in the winding streets; trampled underfoot by the crowd; laughed at by women; taunted by men; forgotten, in the gutter. And there he remained, so the bees always said.

No one even missed him.

30

T

HE

H

ONEYCOMB

C

HILD

Since the death of the Wasp Prince, the Lacewing King had become fatigued. Nothing pleased him anymore. Not one of his twenty thousand books could sustain his interest, with their pages made of moths’ wings, bound in dragonfly leather and cunningly illuminated in butterfly colours and rosewater ink. Neither did his gallery, lined with his ancestors’ faces, where the kings and queens of the Silken Folk looked down at him from their gilded frames.

Neither did his army of chefs, all specially trained to bring him every subtle dish and exquisite wine that might tempt his jaded palate; from the rose-gold wines of Faërie, aged for a thousand years in cedarwood casks, to his favourite dish of damselflies’ tongues, slow-cooked in honey and saffron, and served under silkworm pastry. His entertainers gave him no pleasure, nor did his many courtesans. Neither his centipede contortionists, nor his dung-beetle jesters, nor his butterfly dancers managed to keep his attention, and as for his circus of performing fleas, all they did was make him itch.

And so he sat on his termite throne, encrusted with beetles’-wing casings, and brooded silently to himself, occasionally leaving his reverie to heave a deep sigh, or to toy with the sapphire that hung round his neck, casting a ladder of wintry light onto the marble pavement.

“The King is lonely,” murmured his folk as they tiptoed around him in fear and concern.

Certainly, ever since his disastrous attempt to woo the Butterfly Princess, the King had been silent and withdrawn. Was it love? Probably not. The Lacewing King was too selfish to give his heart to another soul. Or so they whispered among themselves (keeping well out of earshot) as they crept around the silk-lined halls and the labyrinthine corridors of his underground palace, lit by glow-worms and fireflies.

“This place needs a child,” said the King. “Someone to run down these passageways. Someone to tumble across these floors and startle the cockroach soldiers. Someone to entertain me with questions and laughter and stories and games. Someone to—”

Someone to love, perhaps? Who knows? He never said it aloud. And yet, his longing for a child had grown into an obsession. Since the death of the Wasp Prince’s mother, he no longer trusted the Sightless Folk. No more would he dare to place one of his children into their care. And after two unsuccessful attempts to seek a Queen, his pride was hurt, and his faith in women was shaken. There was only one woman in whom the King still had the utmost confidence. And so that night he went to the court of the Honeycomb Queen in the greenwood and told her that he wanted a child.

“I want a son,” said the Lacewing King. “A son who will wear my crown one day. A son to keep me company and to—well. You know what I mean.”

The Queen looked at him for a long time. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said. “A child is not a plaything. Have you learnt nothing from the death of your son, the Wasp Prince? A child needs parents—affection, love—”

“I can do that,” said the King. “I’ll reward you for your trouble.”

The Queen gave him a sad smile. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You’ve never brought up a child before. How can you know what you’re going to feel? More to the point, how do I know that the child will be raised as it should?”

The Lacewing King looked dangerous. “Just give me the child,” he told her. “Too long have I given my favour to the little builders of honeycomb. It’s time you gave something in return. A son, in my image, that’s what I want. And if you defy me, you’ll suffer.”

The Queen gave a sigh. “All right,” she said. “But you have a lot to learn about love. Love can’t be bought with wealth and rewards. Love can’t be earned by anger or threats. Love is like a honeybee—one-half sweetness, one-half sting. We get the half that we deserve. Remember that, Your Majesty.”

The King shrugged. “I’ll do as I please,” he said. “Now when do I get the baby?”

“Give me nine days,” said the Queen. “Then you may come and collect it. But remember—this baby needs patience and love. It isn’t one of your courtiers. If you treat it badly, it will not simply bow and retreat. You asked for son in your image, and that is what I shall give you. Let’s hope you don’t live to regret it.”

The King waved his hand impatiently. “It’s just a baby,” he told her. “You make it sound like a monster.”

“If it grows into a monster,” she said, “then you will be the one to blame.” And she went back into her hive to prepare