Princeps’ Fury

The former High Lady stood well over a head taller than the queen. With her hair drawn back into a tight bun, and clad in the formfitting black chitin of the Vord, Lady Aquitaine looked more slender than the richly cloaked, smaller figure before her. From that close, Amara could see the creature crouched upon her breast. It looked almost like a wax spider, but smaller, and clad in a dark shell. Its many legs circled Lady Aquitaine’s torso and, Amara realized with a start, had actually sunk their clawed tips into Lady Aquitaine’s flesh. Worse, the creature’s head, sporting what must have been mandibles as long as Amara’s fingers, was sunk into the flesh of her torso, just over her heart. The thing shivered and pulsed oddly-and in the rhythm of a heartbeat.

“My lady,” Lady Aquitaine said smoothly.

“Judge the male taker’s progress,” the Vord queen murmured. Her voice was a buzzing thing, as inhuman as her eyes, and sounded like many young women speaking in almost-perfect unison.

Lady Aquitaine inclined her head again and turned to Brencis. She walked over to him, her chitin-coated feet clicking sharply into the silence with each step. Then she knelt over the prostrate young man and ran her fingers lightly through his hair.

Brencis shuddered in reaction to her touch, and looked up with eyes as heavy and hopelessly adoring as any of the other slaves in the courtyard.

“Tell me what you have accomplished, dear boy,” Lady Aquitaine murmured.

Brencis nodded. “I’ve been working without stop, lady. Recruiting more Citizens and Knights, with a focus on earthcrafters, as you commanded. Another hundred and twenty are now ready to accept orders when you wish it.”

“Very well done,” Lady Aquitaine said, her tone warm with approval.

Brencis jerked in place, shivering in forced pleasure, and his eyes rolled back into his head for a moment. A moment later, he stammered, “Th-thank you, lady.”

“Sixscore?” asked the Vord queen. “Too slow.”

Lady Aquitaine nodded. “Brencis,” she said, “it’s time for you to tell me how the collaring is accomplished.”

Brencis closed his eyes. His body tensed and twisted again, though this time it was obviously not in pleasure. His face twisted into a grimace, and he said, through gritted teeth, “I. Will. Not.”

“Brencis,” Lady Aquitaine chided, “you’re going to hurt yourself. Tell me.”

The young man ground his teeth and said nothing. A trickle of blood suddenly coursed down from one nostril.

Lady Aquitaine did not move for a long second. Then she rose, and said, calmly, “Very well. Another time. You may remain silent.”

Brencis gasped and almost seemed to melt into the earth. For several seconds, the only sounds were his panting sobs of release from agony.

“I’m sorry,” Lady Aquitaine said, turning to speak to the Vord queen. “The standard collar I fitted him with can’t match whatever it is he does to alter the bonding process. I can’t compel the secret from him.”

The Vord queen tilted her head slowly to one side. Dark, glossy black hair fell in gentle waves from beneath her hood. “Can you not cause him to fit himself with this same collar?”

Lady Aquitaine shook her head. “He is collared already, my lady. A second such crafting wouldn’t take.”

The queen tilted her head the other way.

“It would have no effect on him,” Lady Aquitaine clarified.

The queen blinked slowly, once. Then turned her gaze past the sobbing Brencis.

To Rook.

“Why was this one pleased when he resisted?” the queen asked. “She restrained a smile. The facial indication of pleasure, is it not?”

“It is. Though there are nuances of meaning to smiles that can become complex,” Lady Aquitaine said. She looked past the subjugated Brencis to Rook, who also lay prostrate, her face downward. “A young woman. Perhaps she has attached herself to his future. Encouraged him to remain silent, so that he could preserve all the power he could.”

The Vord queen considered that for a moment, and paced silently toward Rook, standing over her. “So that she could benefit herself.”

“Correct.”

“Individuality is counterproductive,” the queen said, her voice calm. Then her form blurred, and Amara saw a gleam of dark, green-black chitin at the tips of the pale queen’s fingers as they ripped half of Rook’s throat away.

Amara’s heart all but stopped at the sheer, sudden viciousness and speed of the attack. She had to fight down a scream, and with it the impulse to fling herself to the wounded woman’s defense.

Rook made a sound that was more of a wet, wheezing gasp than any word. She rolled partly onto one side in reaction, her arms and legs thrashing weakly. Blood rushed from the gaping wound in her neck.

The Vord queen stood over the dying woman with a mildly interested expression on her face, staring down at her with unblinking eyes.

“What,” the queen asked, “is Masha?”

Lady Aquitaine looked on impassively, her expression remote. Even so, she averted her eyes from the dying woman and said, “It is a female proper name. Perhaps her sister or her child.”