Page 4 of Foundling

You’re not helping.

Oh, yes, I am. You’re just a stubborn foal.

Leita bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from pouting. Lor-lein. Foal. She wasn’t a child—even if she did feel like stamping her foot right then.

Turning to face her expectant council, Leita glanced at each of them. She trusted this small group…inasmuch as she could trust any fae. Still, her stomach clenched when she said, “I’ve decided to go.”

There.

Tamerlan jumped from his seat to join an already standing Marcades, and they both began to argue against it.

“Your position is too precarious,” cried the first.

“I can’t guarantee your safety outside these walls,” said the second.

“It’ll be expensive, but we can move a few things around,” offered Inara.

“Hang the expense! This is about our Queen’s safety,” Marcades fussed.

“Are we really sure that’s a wise decision, my Queen?” asked Lady Eilean.

“Let her get some fresh air and sun,” said Lady Idrisil. “Besides, anyone could use a break from your company, Eilean.”

“Mother…” Charis groaned.

“Such provincial manners you’ve developed these centuries, I see.”

“Lady Eilean, she didn’t mean—”

“Ohh yes I did. Don’t contradict your matriarch, Allarion.”

“Enough!” A burst of magic swept across the featureless room, sending up whirls of dust motes.

The voices fell silent, all looking to Leita.

“I’m going,” she said, “alone.”

She didn’t need an escort or baggage train. If Leita understood nothing else, it was the wilds. Perhaps she would connect with the more rugged side of the faelands—and those fae who lived there. The capital and all its bemoaning would be here when she returned.

She expected the argument but not quite the ferocity. Her statement had finally united the two parties—into agreeing that she absolutely couldn’t go alone.

Now you’ve done it, Thalia chuckled.

Attalus slid from the tangle of bodies easily, his scales still well-oiled from last night’s revelries. Sore in all the good ways, a mighty yawn clutched his jaw as he stumbled from the dark hall. In the early morning, the air was cooler but still held the heavy scent of sex and incense. Over a dozen people still slept amongst the thick shadows and thicker cushions, and he picked his way over a few to find the open arched threshold.

Shuffling into the warm sandstone courtyard outside, Attalus opened his wings to stretch all seven limbs. Elbows, knees, and wing joints cracked pleasingly as his tail slunk lazily behind him.

Another enjoyable evening in Bargarad. One of several cities and towns along the balmy southern coast of the continent, Bargarad and her sisters were a lively mix of dragons, humans, halflings, sirens, and sometimes mantii. Anything could be procured in her bazaars, from fabric to flesh and everything in between.

His mother had found her human mate here—along with her doom.

Perhaps that’s what Attalus, too, sought in the narrow alleyways and colorful city squares. Inasmuch as Attalus was ever likely to make a nest, a home for himself, Bargarad was the closest he’d come. He’d even been trying his hand at investments, buying a stake in his favorite drinking den and the vineyard they kept outside the city.

Anything could be found here, and perhaps that was the reason Attalus had come looking.

Shaking out his wings, he pushed his long dark hair from his face with a huff. This was why he didn’t like early mornings—they lent themselves to philosophical musings he’d no business with.

He tried to take as little as possible seriously. Even before his father, the mad anax, had slain his mother and her human mate and his siblings had fled into the northern wilds without him, Attalus had never been the serious one.