Page 117 of Foundling

No one to share in the burden.

The strongest fae amongst the first to land had been chosen to bond to this new place. All fae needed that circuit to filter and renew magic, otherwise its potency festered into poison. Many had perished without that circuit on the sojourn across the sea.

Yvenna had been powerful enough to do it, and so she and her line were made Queens.

All fae knew the stories of those rogues who reached for more power, more magic. Usurping the balance brought only suffering. Few were strong enough to withstand the overwhelming might of the magic; they went mad with it before it consumed them outright.

Passing the burden on to others who she knew couldn’t bear it was tantamount to a death sentence. Not only this, but the fae had been subsisting on their own magic for so long, even before Amaranthe. What if being exposed to this raw magic renewed their dependence and worse, sped their doom?

The possibility was too terrible to entertain.

She alone must bear this.

Like she had been all her life, Leita was alone.

28

Perhaps Leita should’ve been pleased to not only see justice done, but to take it for herself with her own hands and magic. Perhaps she should’ve been relieved to finally get answers.

But Leita felt nothing at all when Ondra was brought before her, bound between two guards.

The execution of a traitor should have been carried out in the citadel, a space which conveyed the gravity of what would come to pass. Instead, Leita, Attalus, her council, Thalia, and a host of guards gathered in the hypostyle hall at the heart of the palace.

Shafts of light cut across the stones, creating a dramatic dichotomy between sunlight and shadow. The afternoon sun caught on the many faces of the friezes carved into the red granite, giving them ghoulish expressions as they watched the drama.

Once Ondra was made to kneel before Leita, the hall fell silent, save for the soft slap of Attalus’s tail on the stones.

Leita had hardly spoken to him in two days, the distance he kept an ache that just kept growing. She’d tried to explain herself, but he didn’t want her reasons, sound as she thought them. She doubted he’d even accept her apologies, not that she intended on giving them. Leita had nothing to apologize for. She’d made clear what she would do to protect her azai, and if he didn’t like her methods, well, that was his own burden to bear.

They’d dressed for this in solemn silence, choosing fabrics and robes of somber gray. The color of judgement. Leita didn’t feel beautiful or queenly in her royal costume and jewels; she felt as though she wanted to itch her very skin off.

When asked if he was ready, Attalus nodded grimly. His bloodlust had cooled, it seemed, although he was adamant he witness Ondra’s sentence. “I won’t be denied that, at least.”

His words stuck like thorns in her heart.

No, she wouldn’t deny him this. Even if she was still sore with him—and at herself for being so relieved having him at her side.

Leita didn’t think it showed on her face, but terror clutched her stomach tight.

Everyone gathered knew what would happen, including Ondra. She glared up from where she knelt, defiance in her eyes. She appeared far braver than Leita felt, despite the roles they were now to play.

The interrogators had weakened Ondra’s mind. The fae rarely physically tortured traitors; there was no need, when the mind itself could be broken. There were fae strong enough to resist, yes, but they were rare. Ondra clung to her beliefs and her silence and resisted ably, although Leita was told the cracks had begun to lengthen.

Almost no one could withstand the onslaught of a Queen. Not just terror but compulsion urged them to reveal innermost secrets they’d sworn never to tell.

It was a messy business, one that Amaranthe had apparently used liberally throughout her tyranny. While reviled as a method, it was nevertheless expedient.

Marcades read out the charges against Ondra, a list of some of the highest offenses in the faelands. Treachery, conspiracy, attempted regicide. By rights, Ondra’s body should be hung from the battlements after this, her brains leaking out her ears.

Leita clung to hope that wouldn’t be necessary.

“Reveal what you know. Earn a clear conscience and clean death,” Leita said once Marcades finished. To Leita, it was less an order and more an imploring. Don’t make me do this.

But Ondra only sneered, her gaze filled with hate.

What have I done? Leita wanted to cry. Why did you do this?

It doesn’t matter, Thalia told her, not unkindly. Whatever her reasons, she made her choice.