She was limp in his arms.

The vord Queen let out a shriek of triumph and shot after them in deadly, intent pursuit.

* * *

Amara woke up with something foul in her mouth. She tried to spit it out, only to feel someone pushing it back in. She let out a weak grunt of protest and lifted a hand.

“Countess,” said the First Lady’s calm, quiet voice. “You must leave them in your mouth. Thanks to your wardrobe, you received considerably more poison than Aria, and if you spit them out before it has been neutralized, I fear you could relapse.”

Amara shivered and blinked her eyes open. She was lying in a pool of shallow water, her head resting on Isana’s crossed legs. Whatever the stuff in her mouth was, it tasted musty and vile—so much so that it almost completely neutralized the pain throbbing steadily through her cut and bruised body.

Which meant that she was alive. Which didn’t make sense. One moment, she’d been about to sell her life for an extremely unlikely chance to combat the vord Queen—in fact, as she remembered it, she had taken that gamble and lost, handily, even before the wasp-things had slammed into her.

“Here comes another one,” said a rasping, oddly metallic voice. She turned her head to see what looked like a gargoyle fashioned of steel in the image of Araris Valerian. It took her a second to realize that it truly was Araris, employing a form of metalcrafting they had only heard about Gaius Sextus performing.

Even as she tracked the thought, a vord mantis dropped from the ceiling of the hive—and landed on the ground in two essentially equal-sized pieces. Araris flicked the blood from the sword in his hand and kicked them to either side to clear the space beneath a pair of holes in the ceiling. He was building up quite a pile of remains. There were the various parts and pieces of half a dozen mantis warriors and what must have been eight or ten blade-beasts.

They were still in enemy territory.

That thought pushed another one to mind. She fumbled for her waist pouch and opened it. She reached around inside it with her fingers until she found the stone she was looking for, a smooth river rock the size of her fist. Then she started pushing at the vile mass in her mouth, trying to get it to move to one side.

Gentle hands pushed hers away from her mouth and Amara slapped lightly at them, letting out an irritated, mush-clogged growl.

“She’s trying to talk,” said a thready, exhausted voice. “Let her. See, the stone in her hand? She must have had some kind of plan for getting us out of here if things went bad.”