Page 122 of Foundling

She let them talk and plot, if only so that they would feel they contributed. In truth, Leita’s mind was made up. There would be no surrendering Attalus. That was a nonstarter. What she was willing to do to keep her dragon…well, best they each find out when the time came. She suspected knowing now the lengths she’d go to would only distress them.

The more the weight of the faelands’ magic bore down upon Leita, the harder it compressed her resolve. Attalus was her one happiness, her one reward for this. He’d not be taken from her.

Finally, it was Marcades who raised his hand and stood, silencing the multiple threads of debate at once. “This all depends on how we respond to their demand.” Looking to Leita, he asked, “How do we respond, my Queen?”

Without hesitation, she said, “We deny them. They won’t have Attalus.”

“And what will we do when they demand him still?” asked Charis. “They aren’t likely to back down yet.”

“We offer something in exchange for him. A bride price, the humans call it. His weight in gold if we must.”

“And where will that come from?” Inara grumbled. “We haven’t such capital.”

“It will be found,” Leita said firmly. “If they name a price, I’ll meet it.”

“What if they don’t?” pressed Charis.

“Then I will settle the matter with my brother,” Attalus insisted. “He’s proven himself capable and cunning. There must be something he wants more than me.”

Leita’s breath caught in her throat.

“If there is, then I’ll find it. Sovereign to sovereign,” said Leita. “But if we must meet on the battlefield, so be it.”

Her council looked on, stricken by her words. Their concerned gazes flitted amongst themselves or between her and Attalus.

They could be concerned if they wished, so long as they remained loyal.

Leita wouldn’t suffer another traitor, not with the life of her azai hanging in the balance.

“You can’t fight him, Leita. Not on your own.”

She looked up to find Attalus’s hand on the back of her seat, his expression severe. He smiled so rarely these days, and Leita hated that. She might’ve thought his smiles cheap, easy before and taken them for granted. Now, she understood how precious they were—and just what she would do to get them back.

Standing to face him, she took his chin in her hand, holding him fast so he’d listen when she said, “I’ll do whatever I have to, azore.”

Attalus spent the days given to them ensuring Fallorian could meet a Savrakae assault. The palace itself was fortified, its high walls offering protection from the ground, but that meant little when the enemy could and would attack from the air.

The city itself relied on the fortified palace for its defense. Not ideal, but the palace would likely be the target anyway. With the city still underpopulated, everyone could fit into the palace should the need arise.

So that we all might burn together. Attalus shook off the morbid thought.

All of this planning and fortifying and training was to prepare Fallorian, yes, but Attalus had no intention of letting the palace or anyone in it come to harm. The faelands was his home now, its Queen his mate, and he’d pledged his troth to them both. His loyalty was to Leita.

Attalus set out to prove it in everything he did. He inspected the war machines with Tamerlan and Marcades, advising which materials would be best for the trebuchets and ballistae. He worked with the marksmen on how to aim the wicked weapons, shifting to show them where to strike and bring a dragon down.

He sparred with triad after triad as others watched on to learn how to most effectively fight a Savrakae on the ground. “The wing membranes are delicate and will be guarded viciously,” he told them, his right wing stretched out to show all the bones and the membrane stretched between each. “Cut them enough and the dragon is grounded. Go for sockets and orifices, they’re easy ways in past the scales. If close enough, smaller weapons like daggers or pike heads are most effective and can wedge between the scales. Major arteries are here low on the throat, here beneath the front legs, and…”

The fae warriors listened intently, their grim resolve to defend Queen and capital writ on their serious expressions.

It wasn’t lost on him that in these days, he truly became the traitor he was accused of being. Nothing he said was much of a Savrakae secret, but to say it at all, to invite another race to kill his own, was surely enough to earn the name traitor. He also wasn’t ignorant of how he was instructing the fae in subduing and killing him, too, should they ever need the knowledge.

Attalus took that risk. It might mean he had to be more vigilant, but if it meant Leita’s warriors could better protect her, it was a price worth paying.

By daylight, he made the palace and city ready. By night, he held his mate close, wishing somehow to make the days pass both faster and slower.

They spoke little, even when alone. All the weights Leita bore had begun to show, her face wan and strained. She ate when Attalus or Carenza implored her, but without prompting, she’d sit in silence, her expression forlorn, rubbing that place on her chest.

Attalus didn’t know how to help his mate, and that hurt worst of all. Even if he’d been fae, there didn’t seem to be any way to relieve her, making Attalus fear that this crushing weight of the faelands’ magic might just have to be something she learned to live with. He hoped not. He fervently wished there was another way.