Page 131 of Foundling

If Leita had departed soon after confining him, she was likely at the border by now. That had to be where Araxos would come if he meant to parley in a civilized manner.

That’s what Attalus would’ve imagined, at least, but Araxos pursuing this at all had been unexpected. And he couldn’t get Tychon’s ominous words out of his head. “Our father’s blood is strong in his veins.” Could Araxos’s sanity have slipped?

It’d explain a lot—and reaffirmed Attalus’s drive to break free. He hated the idea of Leita facing a normal Araxos alone. But a mad Araxos? It couldn’t be borne.

Attalus knew exactly what his father had been capable of.

Araxos was younger, wilier, and just as large as their father had been in his shifted form.

Getting leverage with one foot in front of the other, Attalus pulled again, his tail thrashing behind him to give him more momentum. He strained against the invisible bonds, teeth bared and gnashing as he pulled and pulled and pulled.

There was no creak, no give. The bonds held no matter what he did or said. He couldn’t even feel them around his wrists; he only knew they were there because they kept him immobile.

“Fuck!” he bellowed, finally stopping before his arms popped out of their sockets.

Stubborn, reckless, insufferable, arrogant woman!

As he stood there panting, his arms trembling with useless effort, Attalus reached down their bond. Spanning the distance between them, the golden threads had pulled taut, Leita’s apprehension coming to him clearly. It wasn’t that but her morbid determination that worried him.

He had to hope she’d at least taken Marcades and the bulk of her Queen’s Guard with her. Gods above and below, please let her not literally be facing Araxos and whatever forces he certainly brought alone.

Even his feral, untrusting Leita had more sense than that. Right?

Impotent worry knotted up his insides, and there was nothing to do for it but keep trying.

He begged the faelands to release him, making promises and threats in turn. He tried to negotiate, offering whatever the faelands wanted of him for his temporary freedom. He’d fly right back—with Leita clutched in his claws—and then the magic could do whatever it wanted with him. Of course, he hadn’t a clue what the manifested entity of the entire faelands might want, but he’d let it decide that.

The door to their chamber flew open, surprising Attalus out of his bargaining and sending Slinky back under the pillows. Charis came barreling inside, her expression formidable, with a more wary Tamerlan trailing behind.

“You know we can’t,” said the castellan, shutting the door behind them.

“The situation has changed.” Hurrying to stand before Attalus, the chancellor looked him up and down before informing him, “A whole flock of dragons is flying toward Fallorian from the sea. No doubt looking for you.”

“Easy pickings while the Queen is away. Fuck!” It was a simple ruse, one they’d fallen right into.

“We must make ready the defenses, we don’t have time for this,” insisted Tamerlan, hustling over to the balcony and flicking back the sheer curtains.

“Come to hand me over to them, chancellor?” Attalus shrugged. “I’d happily give myself up, but our Queen has ensured I stay right here.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. The whole palace has.” She stopped looking him over—searching for any sign of the magical bonds, he realized—to frown up at him. “And I wasn’t intending to hand you over, thank you very much. You’re the consort.” She said it as though that fact negated any other argument, no matter how reasonable or important. “We need you to defend Fallorian in Leita’s stead.”

Attalus’s brows rose in surprise. “I’m touched, Lady Chancellor. But I can’t do anything from here.”

Charis resumed searching the empty air, perhaps probing it with her own magic.

“We’ll have to break the binding enchantment. Tamerlan, come help me.”

The castellan huffed in frustration but came to join Charis more readily than Attalus expected.

Hope swelled in Attalus’s chest, his twin hearts beginning to race as the two powerful fae set their magic upon his restraints.

Blue and purple sparks leapt into the air, the two fae striking their magic against the faelands’ in a powerful clatter. Attalus couldn’t say he understood what he looked at or whether Charis and Tamerlan made any difference, but it seemed like they wielded their magic as blunt battering rams more so than a finessed weapon.

They poured sheer force into their attack, the ephemeral outline of bonds flashing in the momentary light of dozens of eerie blue sparks.

Attalus threw himself backwards, fighting the bonds with all his strength. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought there might be a little more give than there’d been before, as though his wrists might slip through the nonexistent manacles if he got the angle right.

“Is it working?” asked Tamerlan, a bead of sweat running down his temple.