Page 116 of Foundling

Her shadow was quiet and discreet, at least, as the guard followed her down through the palace. Flickering braziers lit the way, but deep shadows clung to corners and nooks. They came across no one, the hour too small; although many fae were awake through the night, it was often a time of relaxation, recreation, or taking other methods of rejuvenation.

At the archway leading down to the grotto, Leita ordered her guard to remain on the other side. “I’ll be safe down there, I promise. This is the only way in or out.”

The guard wasn’t happy about it, but he eventually nodded, taking up his post.

The stone stairs down to the grotto were cool on her bare feet. Before she’d even reached the final steps, a blue glow beckoned her closer. The grotto was utterly transformed without the miasma, glowworms creeping along the rockface that glittered with pyrite and quartz. The pool itself emitted its own aquamarine radiance, lighting the grotto in ephemeral blues.

However, the beauty was lost on Leita. Sinking down beside the edge of the pool, she dropped her face into her hands and wept.

The pressure building in her chest throbbed, squeezing her heart. She rubbed and rubbed there, as though she could rub it away, but the weight just wouldn’t lift.

Leita had gotten what she wanted—she’d begun to connect to the faelands’ magic. Her wish might just crush her beneath its weight.

“Help me,” she begged. “I don’t know what to do.”

A hand that was not a hand touched her shoulder.

Leita didn’t dare look up, sensing without seeing that the faelands itself knelt beside her. Her breath shuddered out of her on a wobbly exhale, and her tears wouldn’t cease. The pressure in her chest was almost unbearable, and her side, while healed, ached whenever she moved. Her attendant had been her assassin and nearly succeeded; and her azai was hunted by his own kind yet wanted to meet them headlong in battle.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said again.

A humming sound echoed in her ear.

Another tear fell from the tip of her nose, and the plip of it hitting the pool’s surface rang through the grotto.

Leita opened her eyes to see the resulting ripple; it grew larger than it should have, lapping at the rocky rim. Cool water teased her fingertips, the ripples expanding out in a tidal microcosm that coaxed her nearer.

She held her breath as though she meant to plunge face first into the water.

Below the surface, those ghostly figures began to churn. Layers and layers of them were swept away until only one remained, swaying kelp and undissolved salt suspended in the water to form…memories.

Leita watched as the faelands played moments of history for her.

She watched as Yvenna, the First Queen, freshly disembarked from southerly fae ships, began to bond to the faelands and its magic. It’d taken decades and sometimes losing herself in the wilds for years, as she sought the very heart of the land she and her people had claimed. They had already fled one home, they couldn’t uproot again. The cycle of magic could be vicious—it was why all other folk had given it up—but the fae could bear it better than others. She, Yvenna, could bear it.

The weight was crushing, but she bore it alone for a century. It nearly killed her daughter Iseult, the Second Queen, who went mad with the burden.

The third Queen, Imelda Ironsides, had borne it, but her sisters wouldn’t let her suffer alone. Together, they shared in that weight, their family strong enough to bend but not break. With the weight redistributed, Imelda could wield the full might of the fae and their lands, claiming the upper Lune River valleys and north, into the Griegens.

Her daughters and her sisters’ daughters shared in that burden. On down the centuries, one after the next, Queens had relied on the web of kin to share the awesome power of the faelands. With so many choices of successor, the best could be selected for Queenship, and she would enjoy the support of her family and people.

Until, one terrible night five centuries ago, that connection had been severed.

Driven to desperation in the face of her own mortality, Amaranthe had slain her royal kin. Without successors, she couldn’t be overthrown. Without kin, the magic corroded her and itself. Like Iseult before her, Amaranthe had gone mad with it. Yet, rather than destroy her, she reveled in that madness, embraced it. She found power in the decay and corrosion and took her Queendom with her into darkness.

Leita pushed away from the water’s surface, gasping for breath. Fat tears dripped from her eyes, obscuring the memories with ripples.

Her heart raced painfully under the firm if invisible mass pressing there, and spots danced in her vision while she tried to catch her breath.

“Why show me this?” she demanded.

A faint, faceless blue wisp hovered near the edge of the pool. The humming returned, its cadence almost a question.

“The magic must be shared, distributed,” Leita said. The idea of giving up some of this heaviness, of handing it over for others to bear, filled her with momentary relief.

But then—more tears flowed when she realized—“But I’m the only one left.”

Attalus was Savrakae. Charis and House Meringor, along with other houses both noble and not, carried drops of royal blood from generations past. But Leita was the only royal left, the only one who could draw a straight line from herself to Yvenna. There was no one else. No kin, no family, no support.