Page 104 of Foundling

The air over the palace bent in waves of heat, only steam left behind.

And a resounding silence.

No one spoke, no one dared believe.

Leita staggered to the side, but Attalus was there to catch her by the elbow and draw her into his body. She held onto him for balance, and he could feel how she trembled.

“Leita…?”

Her shaking hand came to rest over her chest. “I-I can feel it.” Her face, gone slack with shock, turned up to stare at him. “Attalus, I can feel the faelands here.” She pushed a finger into her sternum, hard enough it was as though she meant to touch whatever she felt beneath her skin.

Attalus gripped her hand before ducking to pick her up. He whooped and cheered, spinning her about in wild celebration. She’d done it! His beautiful, clever, stubborn Leita had done it!

25

Even days later, Leita couldn’t help marveling at the state of the palace. She often found herself wandering the reclaimed areas, a long-buried memory surfacing to see that window or that door. There was where she and Lilibet had acted out dramas to make each other laugh. There was where she and her cousins were bathed, a dozen little otters slipping through the grasping reach of mothers and nursemaids.

However, there were still places she didn’t tarry. The Queen’s quarters were quickly cleared, as were the many chambers taken up by Amaranthe’s harem of weak-minded sycophants. Something of an apothecary was found, all manner of foul concoctions polluting the air. All of it—profane texts, ingredients, jars, furniture, bedding, curtains, cushions, clothes—went into a bonfire lit by Attalus.

The dragonfire consumed all before it, reducing the last vestiges of Amaranthe’s reign to ash.

With the miasma cleared, a profound sense of relief now permeated the palace and Fallorian itself. A literal veil had been lifted, the cobwebs of decay burnt away. Light streamed into the palace where it’d been blocked before, the sea breeze let in to freshen the air. After a few days’ work, the reclaimed parts of the palace were once again gleaming limestone and marble, the window glass clear, and the braziers polished to a high shine.

Her staff and council were noticeably relieved, and everyone stopped to congratulate or thank her. Even the elders lauded her efforts, praising her devotion and cleverness. The palace, Fallorian, the faelands itself was coming alive again, emerging from the darkness of the past. A new day had dawned for them, and oh, how bright it was.

Leita wanted to bask in that light. She tried to, anyway.

But the more she felt the faelands stir and awaken, the greater the weight upon her shoulders became. She didn’t mean that metaphorically, either. Weight bore down upon her, sometimes stealing her breath away it pressed on her chest so powerfully.

This was what the elders had meant, she supposed, to be the center of the spokes. The keystone of the arch. Everything led back to her, everything leaned upon her for support.

And while Leita could lean on her own support, reaching for Attalus whenever she wanted, she didn’t dare reveal this crushing weight, not even to him. It was the Queen’s burden, and she had to learn to bear it.

She soon found keeping busy helped, and so Lady Idrisil happily arranged for Leita to meet with several of the more renowned craftspeople and merchants, to learn what sorts of goods might be made for export. The faelands couldn’t rely on a few silver mines anymore.

Ondra helped her dress for the occasion, flowing trou and bodice of pale lilac with a few choice jewels round her neck and fingers. As Leita surveyed herself in the mirror, the amethysts winked back at her.

Leita looked like herself—if a bit more refined—and she was glad to see the weight she now carried wasn’t obvious. Perhaps, with time, it would become easier to bear.

For now, though, she had to be content with the faelands coming awake. She could feel it just over her shoulder, following behind as Ondra or Carenza often did. It hung around near her, shy still, but with its own burden of the miasma lifted, Leita thought she’d freed the faelands to indulge its curiosity about her.

Before heading out, Leita stood in the open doors to the balcony. Laid out in the sun on a long sedan was her dragon, his tail curling lazily. Slinky lay beside him in a ball, tired from gorging again on fruit and cheese. In fact, the marten was starting to look less cylindrical and a bit more…robust.

“How is this?” she asked, presenting her outfit for approval.

Attalus rolled onto his side to face her, an appreciative croon on his lips. “You look beautiful, agae. Stunning.” Reaching for her, he reeled her closer once he had her hand in his. Leita bent to receive his kiss even before he tugged on one of her necklaces. “Perhaps too beautiful,” he amended, “perhaps you should stay here with me and lounge.”

“Alas, some of us have work to do.”

“I am working, as you well know,” he countered with a grin. “I’ve the important position of keeping you happy and satisfied. To do that, I must keep in peak physical form.”

Leita laughed against his mouth. “I’m glad to see you taking your work so seriously.”

“Indeed. So is the plight of the consort.” Settling down on his back again, Attalus folded his arms behind his head, letting the sun glitter and gleam along his scantily clad body. He certainly made a tempting sight, as he well knew, leering up at her from his sedan. All ruby scales and hard muscle and warm comfort.

“Later,” she promised.

“The word of the Queen.”