She folded her hands in her lap, and said, calmly, “And both of you are now worried that I have realized so much about you both. About who you are. About what moves you. You’re both wondering what else I know. And how else I might use it against you. And why I have revealed what I know here, and now. And you, lonely Queen, wonder if you have made a mistake in bringing me here. You wonder what Octavian inherited from his father—and what came from me.”
Silence filled the hive. Neither of the two half women to whom she spoke moved.
“Do you think?” Isana asked in a conversational tone, “that it might be possible to have hot tea with our dinner tonight? I’ve always found a good cup of tea to be most…” She smiled at them. “Reassuring.”
The Queen stared at her for a time. Then she whirled to face Invidia, and said, “You may not have the remaining crafters,” she hissed. Then, the hem of her tattered gown snapping, the vord Queen stalked from the hive.
Invidia looked after the Queen, then turned to Isana. “Are you mad? Do you know what she could do to you?” Her eyes flickered with disquieting light. “Or what I could do to you?”
“I needed her to leave,” Isana said calmly. “Do you wish to be rid of her, Invidia?”
The burned woman gestured in burning frustration at the creature clamped to her. “It cannot be.”
“What if I told you that it could?” Isana asked, speaking in a calm, almost-toneless voice. “What if I told you that the vord possess the means to cure you of any poison, to restore the loss of any organ—even to restore your beauty? And that I know its name and can make a fair guess at where it might be?”
Invidia’s head rocked back at Isana’s words. Then she breathed, “You’re lying.”
Isana offered the woman her hand calmly. “I’m not. Come see.”
The other woman took a step back from Isana, as though the offered hand contained pure poison.
Isana smiled. “I know,” she said calmly. “You could be free of them, Invidia. I think it is very possible. Even against the Queen’s will.”
Invidia lifted her chin. Her eyes burned, and her scarred face twisted into what looked like physical pain. Terrible hope pulsed from her, and though she tried to hide it, Isana had been too near her, through too much, for too long. There was no more hiding it from her finely tuned senses. Though it sickened her to do it, Isana faced her calmly and waited for the pressure of that hope to drive the other woman to speak.
“You,” Invidia rasped, “are lying.”
Isana shook her head slowly, never looking away from the other woman’s eyes. “Should you wish to change your future,” she said calmly, “I am here.”
Invidia turned and stormed from the hive. Isana heard a roaring windstream bear her away—leaving her in the hive alone. Except, of course, for perhaps a hundred wax spiders, most of them motionless but not asleep. If she moved toward the exit, they would swarm her.
Isana smoothed her skirts again and sat calmly.
Waiting.
CHAPTER 41
Fidelias had watched Crassus run the Legions and manage the Canim in the retaking of Riva while Octavian rested from the rather spectacular display of furycrafting he’d put on. Fidelias was impressed with the young Antillan lord. He’d expected Crassus to behave quite a bit differently when he was the one in command. He’d expected someone much more like… well, like Maximus, from the heir of Antillus Raucus. Crassus had, it would seem, inherited the best traits of his mother’s bloodline, House of Kalarus: cool logic, intelligence, and polish, seemingly without being infected with the megalomaniacal self-obsession in which most of those petty-minded monsters had reveled.
Granted, Crassus’s levelheaded style wasn’t necessarily a perfect one where the Canim were concerned. An officer of their corps, a young Shuaran, had dropped a challenge to Crassus’s authority within hours, at which point his elder half brother Maximus had promptly brought one of Raucus’s strengths of character to the forefront—the ability to make a decisive and unmistakable statement.
When the Cane went for Crassus’s throat, Maximus threw him through a building.
It was a rather absolute form of diplomacy though Fidelias could only assume that Octavian had rubbed off on Maximus to some degree: It had been a wooden building rather than a stone one. The Cane in question was expected to recover from his injuries—eventually. Varg had denied the uppity Cane the services of Aleran healers, which Crassus had promptly offered.
Fidelias’s grasp of Canim was still fairly rough, but Varg’s comment had amounted to something like, “Your stupidity will get fewer good warriors killed if you have time to reflect on today’s mistake before leading them.”
Octavian dropped his head back at Fidelias’s recounting and laughed. His voice came out sounding a little flat within the privacy windcrafting he had woven around them. “One-eared Shuaran pack leader? Tarsh?”
“Aye, Your Highness, the same.”
Octavian nodded. The two of them were walking the perimeter of the camp’s defenses as the sunset closed, after another day of hard marching, inspecting the work of the Legions and the warriors. “Maximus has wanted to have an excuse to take a swing at Tarsh ever since we met him in Molvar. And I can’t imagine that Varg would be sorry about being given a reason not to place anyone under Tarsh’s command.” Octavian nodded. “What of the survivors from Riva?”
The Legions had found a handful of folk clever or fortunate enough to have successfully hidden from the vord during the days of occupation. None of them were in what would be considered good condition though few bore any injuries. “The children are showing signs of beginning to recover,” Fidelias said. “The others… some of them have family who might be alive. If we get them to someplace warm and quiet and safe, they have a chance.”
“Someplace warm, quiet, and safe,” said the Princeps, his eyes hardening. “That can be a rare thing even in times of peace.”
“True enough.”
The Princeps stopped in his tracks. They were a short distance from the nearest sentries. “Your best guess. Could Crassus command this force in… my absence?”
“In your absence, as your lieutenant, yes,” Fidelias replied immediately. “In the event of your loss, Captain? Not for long.”
Octavian eyed him sharply. “Why?”
“Because the Canim respect Varg, and Varg respects you. The Free Aleran Legion respects you—but if you weren’t here, they would follow Varg’s lead.”
The Princeps grunted, frowning. Then he said, “Are you telling me that I should name a Canim the second-in-command of our forces?”
Fidelias opened his mouth and closed it again. He blinked, thinking it over. “I believe… that Varg would have a better chance of holding the force together than Crassus, or anyone else in the First Aleran’s command structure.”
“Except, perhaps, Valiar Marcus,” Octavian mused.
Fidelias snorted. “Yes, well, that’s not an option now, is it?”
Octavian regarded him steadily and said nothing.
Fidelias tilted his head as it slowly dawned on him what Octavian meant. “Oh, Your Highness. You couldn’t possibly do that.”
“Why not?” Octavian asked. “No one but my personal guard and Demos’s crew know the truth about you. They can keep a secret. So, Marcus runs the force until it can unite with the Legions, passes along Crassus’s orders, and is watched by the Maestro—who is, I believe, still uncertain as to why you aren’t hanging on a cross being eaten by vord.”