Page 101 of Foundling

Or, he meant to, but Slinky had other ideas. And probably wanted her warm place in bed. Sliding down his arm, the marten slithered between them to lick Leita’s nose, whiskers twitching.

Leita exhaled loudly, her face scrunching. “You smell like cheese.”

“That’s likely a compliment to a marten.”

Even as his mate continued to grumble and yawn, his and Slinky’s mission was complete. They had an awake Leita, and eventually they had an upright and dressed Leita.

“A few options for you,” Attalus said as he popped grapes into Leita’s mouth. “We can check over the stock from the orcish territories, we can go see the elders to practice magic, or we can go to the grotto like you wanted.”

Her glower was absolutely adorable, and he couldn’t resist stealing a grape-flavored kiss.

“Grotto it is,” he said with a smile.

The grotto was just as dark and dank as it’d been before, the air carrying an unpleasant woolliness that invaded the nostrils and wasn’t easily dislodged. Attalus didn’t care for the space at all, but he knew that whatever he felt, it was far worse for Leita.

He wished he could better understand the bond the fae shared with their land. It was unlike anything anywhere else on the continent as far as he knew. The fae were symbiotic with their homeland in a way that other folk couldn’t comprehend.

Attalus supposed it might be like the instinct to shift. He didn’t have to think about his other form; when the feeling came, his body transformed. It was similar, he believed, with manticores, although they apparently possessed an inner beast self. Shifting to another form reeked of intrinsic magic, but dragons, manticores, and all other folk had lost the ability to communicate with it.

The language wasn’t a dead one to the fae, though. They were the last to speak it fluently.

So while Attalus couldn’t fully understand Leita’s plight, he did see her struggle and wished to lighten her load. If that meant accompanying her to this damp place, so be it.

Although she’d chosen new, comfortable pieces to wear today, including a light skirt and a low-backed bodice with stay strings in the front, Leita had forgone shoes. While Attalus never wore the things, seeing his mate step on the muzzy rocks with her delicate bare feet had his gall rising. His palms twitched to pick her up and carry her across the grotto floor.

He gritted his fangs against the instinct, doubting she’d appreciate the gesture.

“Do you feel it more strongly here?” he asked quietly, wincing at the sound of his own echo. He hardly knew what he meant by it, but Leita nodded.

“Yes, the magic is here with us. Watching us. But it’s like it hides behind a rock, just out of sight.”

A troubled frown, an expression Attalus had come to know well, gathered at her brow.

“Don’t push yourself. You’ll scare it away.” He didn’t know that, of course, but Attalus assumed the faelands acted like any other scared, traumatized creature. Its trust had to be earned; no simple feat when it was already wary and beaten down by centuries of abuse.

He’d hoped she’d made a breakthrough the last time they were there. Talking about her past unlocked something in Leita. Not only did he feel closer to her, knowing more of what made her Leita, but giving voice to memories long buried seemed to ease her spirit. As she’d spoken, both of them swore little plumes of blue light had begun to glow around the grotto—gone if they looked but there in the periphery.

Whatever progress had been made, though, appeared fleeting. Or, at least, they’d made the faelands curious but not convinced.

“Shall we tell it about yesterday’s council meeting?” Attalus proposed.

Leita pulled a face before finally shrugging. If what the fae believed about their land and its magic was true, it had to already know everything that’d happened, right? But then again, perhaps it liked feeling included. Or perhaps it just liked the sounds of their voices.

Whatever it was, Attalus didn’t imagine the blue wisps teasing the edges of his vision as Leita spoke. He held her gaze, both of them trying not to grow too eager.

Attalus motioned for Leita to continue, silently urging her to keep talking. He doubted it truly mattered what she said, just that she was there to say it in a friendly manner.

He had to bite his tongue to keep his excitement in check. He’d rather pull out all his scales than be the reason the faelands fled from Leita. Attalus didn’t dare move, not even letting his tail swish, as his mate continued to talk about everyday goings-on. How many households were growing vegetables now, and how they hoped for a bountiful yield come autumn. How shipments had just arrived from the orcs, including a letter from her friend. How the cooks from the hinterlands had begun to win over the skeptic fae of Fallorian.

The longer Leita talked, the larger the blue wisps grew. He swore one was nearly as tall as him just to his right, winking in and out of temporality.

Attalus held his breath when Leita’s gaze flicked quickly from him to his right and back again. Her eyes widened in exhilaration, and he bit his cheek harder, nearly drawing blood, to keep from roaring with pride.

Little by little, she made small hand gestures and dared to take glances at the wisps. Before long, it almost seemed as though she carried on a conversation with the magic, his presence here merely incidental.

Gods, he was so damn proud of her. If Eilean could just see her—

A particularly fuzzy bit of miasma snuck up his nose, and Attalus couldn’t contain it—a mighty sneeze erupted from his nostrils. Not just miasma but motes and snot came shooting out, as did a bright burst of flame.