"My sister, is she dead? Go and give her a poke, would you?" The great white presence that was the Lady Mother of the Long Walkers indicated the row of captive queens on their dais beneath her, deferentially lower.
"Which sister, Lady?"
The Mother of Us All, goddess and progenetrix, sighed. "Indil, Indil, what shall I do with you?"
"I am your Master of Messengers, Lady."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes. But which one? Use your celebrated initiative."
Indltainalyei, known as Indil, hooked into a supernumerary queen’s eye with the distal spur of a middle leg. The head detached and bounced dispiritedly away down a slight grade into a connecting chamber. "Your sister would appear to be indeed dead, Majesty."
now in Aeon Speculative Fiction Eleven
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