“Your species is young and weak,” the vord Queen said. “Disease is no enemy of the vord. We have lived longer than most diseases. We have survived them. The hygienic concerns of the dinner ritual are unnecessary.”

“And yet,” Isana said, “if you do not follow them, you are not doing it properly.”

“Just so,” the vord Queen said. “There are… intangible factors at work here. Things that make your kind difficult to predict.” The petulant tone of a sulking child entered the Queen’s voice. “Their backs should have been broken at Riva. But they fought more tenaciously than at any time in my observation.”

“And they will only grow more determined,” Isana said. “Not less.”

“That is irrational,” the Queen said.

“But true.”

The Queen stared at Isana sullenly. “I will permit you to observe the proper forms of the dinner ritual. Water will be brought to you in containers. You may use salt and water to clean the implements. You have one hour. Prepare three places.”

She turned abruptly and stalked over to the croach-lined dome she used to command her creations.

The wax spiders began carrying in silverware, plates, and cups. Isana felt sure that basins of water and salt would not be far behind.

She sighed and rolled up her sleeves, wondering as she did how many First Ladies of Alera had found themselves playing scullion to an invading enemy.

It was slightly more than an hour later when, for the first time since the Battle of Riva, they were joined at the meal by Lady Invidia.

Isana stared at the other woman in shock. Invidia had been burned. Horribly. Though portions of her face and neck showed the fresh pink skin indicative of flesh that had been watercrafted whole, they only served to create a contrast against the thick scarring of flesh burned beyond the ability of any healer to make whole. Invidia had been considered one of the great beauties of Alera. One could still see the faint echoes of that beauty, but they only made the melted-wax scarring of her features that much more horrible. One of her eyes drooped at the outer corner, as if the flesh had melted and run down a bit before hardening again. Her lips were twisted into a permanent sneer. Her hair was all but gone, replaced by burn-scarred skin and a close-shaved stubble. The creature on her chest showed similar scars, but it still pulsated and stirred from time to time.

“Good evening, Isana,” Invidia said. The words were slurred very slightly, as if she’d had a little too much wine. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Great furies,” Isana breathed. “Invidia… What happened?”

The former High Lady’s eyes flickered with something satisfied and ugly. “A divorce.”

Isana shivered.

Invidia picked up her spoon and examined it thoughtfully. She did the same with her plate. She looked at Isana and arched an eyebrow before looking at the Queen. “I take it she convinced you to see reason?”

“I decided to experiment,” the Queen replied, “on the theory that by doing so, I might gain additional insight into Alerans.”

Invidia’s eyes went back to Isana, and her lips peeled back from her teeth. “I see. Though there seems little point for you in continuing the exercise. Din- nertimes are about to become a matter of historical record. Along with plates and silverware.”

“Part of my duty to my kind is to learn from and absorb the strengths of those beings we displace,” the Queen replied. “The emotional bonding between homogenous bloodlines seems to be the foundation of a wider sense of bonding among the species. Study is warranted.”

Isana felt a sudden stirring of emotion from the Queen as she spoke—a brief spike of sadness and remorse, as slender and cold as a frost-covered needle. Isana did not look up at Invidia, but in her watercrafting senses, the simmering cauldron of pain, fear, and hate that comprised Invidia’s presence did not change.

The former High Lady had not sensed the instant of vulnerability in the vord Queen.

The burns, the injuries, the trauma of suffering so much pain, had doubtless left her weakened, of furycraft, of body, and, most importantly, of mind. Now was the time to pressure her, to see what information she might give away, what weaknesses she might reveal.

From somewhere outside the hive, there was a high, ululating shriek or whistle. The Queen’s head snapped around toward the entrance—turning an unsettling half circle to do so—and she rose from the table at once to stalk over to the glowing dome.

Isana watched her go and toyed with her food. She was starving, but this particular dish—intended to be some sort of marinade and roast combination, perhaps?—tasted singularly vile.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” Invidia said. She cut herself a small bite, impaled it on a fork, and ate it daintily. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most revolting and one being almost edible, I believe that rating this recipe would require the use of exponents.”

Isana ate the largest bite she thought she could stand. It was not large. She chased it down to her stomach with several swallows of water. There was no point in starting an attack too soon. Even in her diminished state, Invidia would surely notice anything truly overt. “I suppose food does not absolutely need to taste good in order to keep one alive.”

“But to keep one from committing suicide, it does need to taste better than this,” Invidia said. She fixed her eyes on Isana and smiled. It was a grotesque expression. “Why, First Lady. What do you see that disturbs you so?”

Isana cut another bite from the rectangular brick of roasted croach. She ate it very slowly. “I’m sorry to see you so harmed, Invidia.”

“Of course you are,” she said, her voice dripping acid. “After all we’ve done for one another, of course you feel sympathy for me.”

“I think you should hang from the neck until dead for what you’ve done, Invidia,” Isana replied gently. “But that isn’t the same thing as seeing you in such pain. I don’t like to see anyone suffer. That includes you.”

“Everyone wants someone to suffer, Isana,” the former High Lady replied. “It’s simply a matter of finding a target and an excuse.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked quietly.

“That is the truth of the world,” Invidia said harshly. “We are selfless when it suits our purposes, or when it is easy, or when the alternative would be worse. But no one truly wishes to be selfless. They simply desire the acclaim and goodwill that comes from being thought so.”

“No, Invidia,” she said quietly, firmly. “Not everyone is like that.”

“They are,” Invidia said, her voice shaking with unsteady intensity. “You are. Under the lies you tell yourself, part of you hates me. Part of you would love to pluck out my eyes while I screamed.”

“I don’t hate a serpent for being a serpent,” Isana said. “But neither will I permit it to harm me or those I care about. I will kill it if I must, as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

“And that’s what I am to you?” Invidia asked. “A serpent?”

“That’s what you were,” Isana said quietly.

Invidia’s eyes shone with a feverish intensity. “And now?”

“Now, I think you might be a mad dog,” Isana said quietly. “I pity such a poor creature’s suffering. But it changes nothing about what I must do.”

Invidia dropped her head back and laughed. “What you must do?” she asked. She put her fingertip on the table, still smiling, and smoke began rising in a thin, curling thread. “Exactly what do you think you could possibly do to me?”

“Destroy you,” Isana said quietly. “I don’t want to do it. But I can. And I will.”

“If you go shopping for a hat, darling, be sure to get one several sizes larger than the one it’s replacing.” She glared at Isana. “So you were the choice of the flawless Princeps Septimus, over every woman in the Realm actually qualified to be his wife. So your child by him was recognized by Gaius. It means nothing, Isana. Don’t think for an instant that your strength can compare to mine.”