“Yes,” Aquitaine said.
“They’ll be ground to dust.”
“You exaggerate the danger, Countess,” Aquitaine replied. “Fine sand.” Amara just stared at the man. “Was… was that a joke?”
“Apparently not,” Aquitaine replied. He turned his face toward the lines again.
His eyes were calm, and veiled…
… and haunted.
Amara followed his gaze and realized that he was staring at the screaming casualties on the ground, the men whose proportion of agony to mortality had run too high to rate immediate attention. She shivered and averted her eyes.
Aquitaine did not.
Amara looked back to the battle itself. The legionares were holding the enemy tide at bay—for now.
“Yes,” Aquitaine said quietly. “The Legions will pay a terrible price so that the residents of Riva can flee. But if they do not, the city will fall into chaos, and the civilians will die.” He shook his head. “This way, perhaps half of the legionares will survive the retreat. Even odds. If we are forced to defend the city to our last man, they will all die, Countess. For nothing. And they know it.” He nodded. “They’ll fight.”
“And you?” Amara asked, careful to keep her tone completely neutral. “Will you fight?”
“If I reveal my position and identity, the enemy will do everything in their power to kill me in order to disrupt Aleran leadership. I will take the field against the Queen. Or Invidia. For them, it would be worth the risk. Until then… I will be patient.”
“That’s probably best, Your Highness,” Ehren said quietly, stepping forward from his unobtrusive position in the Princeps’ background. “You aren’t replaceable. If you were seen in action in these circumstances, it’s all but certain that Invidia, or the Queen, would appear and make every effort to remove you.”
Amara drew in a slow breath and looked past Aquitaine to where Sir Ehren hovered in attendance. The little man’s expression was entirely opaque, but he had to realize Aquitaine’s situation. His recent storm of new orders had, effectively, stripped him completely of the support of his peers in furycrafted power. The others as strong as he had been dispatched to protect their Legions.
Leaving Aquitaine to stand against his ex-wife or the vord Queen—should they appear—alone.
One gloved fingertip tapped on the hilt of his sword. It was the only thing about him that might have been vaguely construed as a nervous reaction.
“Either one of them is at least a match for you,” Amara said quietly. “If they come together, you won’t have a chance.”
“Not if, Countess,” Aquitaine said, thoughtfully. He slid his finger over the hilt of the sword in an unconscious caress. “I believe I’ve had my fill of ‘if ’s. When. And we’ll see about that. I’ve never been bested yet.” He pursed his lips, staring at the battle, then gave himself a little shake, and said, “Take word to Riva. Then return to me here. I will have more work for you.”
Amara arched an eyebrow at him. “You’d trust me enough for that?”
“Trust,” he said. “No. Say instead that I have insufficient distrust of you to make me willing to waste your skills.” He smiled that razor-thin smile again, and waved a hand vaguely toward the battle lines. “Frankly, I find you a far-less-terrifying enemy than our guests. Now go.”
Amara considered the man for the space of a breath. Then she nodded to him, somewhat more deeply than she needed to. “Very well,” she said, “Your Highness.”
CHAPTER 19
In the hours that followed, Isana listened to the vord Queen assault and savage the collected military might of the Realm.
She never left the glowing green chamber beneath the earth. Instead, she simply stared upward, into the glowing light of the croach, and gave Isana a running commentary of the battle. In neutral, unhurried tones, the Queen reported the outcomes of maneuvers and attacks.
Isana had seen enough of the war with the vord to translate the words into images of pure horror in her thoughts. She stood beside Araris, checking every so often to be sure that his nose and mouth were still uncovered. His skin, beneath the surface of the croach, did not appear to be irritated or burned—yet. But it was hard to be certain. It was like looking at him through tinted and ill-shaped glass of particularly poor quality.
“I find it… I believe this is a form of anger, though not a particularly potent example,” said the vord Queen, after several moments of silence. “There is a word for it. I find the Aleran defense to be… irritating.”
“Irritating?” asked Isana.
“Yes,” the Queen said, staring upward. She pointed with one black-clawed finger. “There. The workers and noncombatants are fleeing the city. And yet I cannot, quite, reach them. Their destruction would all but assure the end of this war.”
“They are defenseless,” Isana said quietly.
The vord Queen sighed. “If only that were true. Assigning nearly half the population as expendable protectors is wastefully unnecessary. Most of the time. It won’t make a difference in the end, but for now…” She lifted a hand and let it fall again, a gesture that somehow contained her irritation, her passing annoyance, and the fate of Alera, all in the same imagined handful. “This world has been ferociously competitive since long before my wakening.”
“Those are women,” Isana said quietly. “The aged, the sick. Children. They are not a threat to you.”
The vord Queen’s eyes glinted oddly. “The women can produce more of you, and that cannot be tolerated. The aged and sick… there might be some merit in continuing to allow them to drain your people’s resources, but their experience and knowledge might tip a balance, which would prove costly.”
“And the children?” Isana said, her voice growing colder despite herself. “What harm could they possibly do you?”
The vord Queen’s lips spread in a slow, bitter smile. “Your children are indeed no threat. Today.” She turned her eyes from the ceiling and stared at Isana for a time. “You think me cruel.”
Isana looked from Araris’s slack, unconscious face to the vord Queen. “Yes,” she hissed.
“And yet, I have offered your people a choice,” the Queen said. “A chance to surrender, to accept defeat without losing their own lives—which is more than your people have ever offered me. You think me cruel for hunting your children, Grandmother, but your folk have hunted mine, and killed them in tens of thousands. Your folk and mine are the same, in the end. We survive, and we do so at the expense of others who seek nothing more than to do the same.”
Isana was silent for a long moment. Then she asked, very quietly, “Why do you call me that?”
The vord Queen was also quiet for a time. Then she answered, “It seems fitting, as I understand such things.”
“Why?” Isana pressed. “Why would you consider Tavi your father? Do you truly believe yourself his child?”
The vord Queen moved her shoulders in a shrug that did not look as though it came naturally to her. “Not in the sense that you mean. Although, like you, I did not choose those whose blood would merge to create mine.”
“Why would you care?” Isana asked. “Why should it matter to you whether or not you refer to me in a way that is appropriate to Alerans?”
The Queen tilted her head again, her expression abstracted. “It should not matter.” She blinked her eyes several times in rapid succession. “It should not. And yet it does.”
Isana took a deep breath, sensing something vital stirring beneath the vord’s cool, smooth surface. She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the Queen as she murmured, “Why?”