Page 64 of Foundling

A hush fell across the crowd as Marcades and his soldiers tried to squeeze their way inside.

“I think just you will be enough, captain,” she told him.

Marcades regarded her unhappily before giving the others a signal. Even with all but one guard now outside, the crowd remained tense, all eyes trained on Leita as she walked to one of the wide tables set with many lumps of dough in various stages of becoming bread.

None of them looked…particularly delectable. Or even edible. It didn’t help that Corran Erengar hadn’t even wiped down what must have been one of his worktables before leaving dough to prove. Although the room itself was warm now, Leita doubted it was actually a good space for proving, with too many chances for a draft. And, of course, the old clay on the work surface.

All of Corran’s shaped loaves were interesting, and Leita could see a potter’s mind behind the forms they took. Not just simple loaves but horns, flutes, and bowls of bread had been sculpted from flour and water—the thought made her grin.

She appreciated that Corran didn’t make much of a ceremony out of cutting slices for her and her party. Leita took her slice to inspect, noting immediate flaws. This was nothing like the brown breads her human mother had baked, and she doubted the stodgy slice would be sweet.

Before she could pinch the bread too much, Charis cleared her throat delicately.

Right.

Offering Corran a grin, Leita bit off a mouthful and chewed as everyone watched.

It was underproved and gritty, the bottom crust too thick and the upper crust too soft, yet, “I’ve had worse.” She’d eaten bugs, raw fish, and roots many times, after all.

Many blinks met her statement, but she didn’t think Corran was offended.

“I think it just needs to prove a bit longer in a small, warm space. Perhaps a bit more salt.” As it was so long ago, she couldn’t quite remember exactly how her mother had made bread, but she thought her advice sound enough. “Some butter, perhaps jam. Or cured pork.”

Murmurs began behind hands, quickly drowned out by Charis’s choked cough. The bread was granular, sure, but not that—

“Indeed, my Queen, all excellent suggestions, I’m sure. Now, shall we try the tavern?”

And with the bread still in her hand, Leita was bundled out of the pottery-turned-bakery and marched down the street, the murmurs following her all the way.

The smell of dead fish was potent enough that Attalus woke a moment before wet scales met his face. His mouth scrunched in disgust, and with effort, he lifted his arm to pull the fish off.

Slinky scurried about his head, her whiskers tickling as she nudged his face, urging him to eat. Her little trills and squeaks carried a frantic quality, and he could just imagine her tutting and fussing, telling him he needed to eat, to keep his strength up.

Attalus knew that, knew he needed sustenance. He’d managed to fill a water skein yesterday—or perhaps a few days ago?—to keep by his side. When Slinky brought him nuts and berries, he did his best to chew them, even though his jaw quickly grew tired. She’d brought him minnows, frogs, small birds, crickets, and a vole that wasn’t quite as dead as she thought, apparently attempting to find something he’d eat.

It wasn’t for lack of variety. All right, that was a lie—Attalus would never eat a cricket. Or frog. Or vole.

It was for lack of energy. He couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to eat more than a bite. He’d dozed off halfway through a raw hazelnut, only to choke and cough up the dry, half-chewed mush.

If it wasn’t for Slinky’s heroic efforts, Attalus might not have woken at all. Every joint ached to the point of true pain, every movement taking effort and willpower that’d begun to fade.

Part of him wished to sleep endlessly. To enter torpor like the bears did for winter. At least then, he wouldn’t feel his own body dying day by day, succumbing to the venom poisoning his blood. Then, the next time he woke, it’d be to find his mate finally returned. Or if not, he’d never wake again and not know the difference.

Another, smaller part understood that it was for the best Slinky woke him. Her efforts alone kept him not only fed but alive. What he was able to choke down between bouts of unconsciousness seemed just enough to sustain him. He might be a husk if his mate ever bothered to come back, but he’d be alive.

At least, he hoped.

As the days passed, Attalus lost count of them. He marked time by mouthfuls of water and food. There was no other way to deal with the venom but go through it.

He thought perhaps it should’ve subsided by now, but he’d also come to suspect that Leita’s magic had subdued the venom, allowing it to build in his system. Now, with her magic gone with her, it wreaked the havoc it’d been denied.

Attalus tried to let Slinky worry for the both of them, but even he was becoming uneasy in his fleeting moments of lucidity.

The marten nudged him again, incessant. She squeaked irritably when he laid the decently large fish—some sort of trout, maybe?—alongside him. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but he managed to slice open the fish’s belly and pull out the slimy, nutrient-dense liver. He popped it into his mouth, chewing mechanically. The bloody, briny flavor burst across his tongue, making him grimace, but he swallowed it down.

He managed to cut a few chunks of raw flesh away before his bloody claws became too lethargic to use.

“You eat the rest,” he muttered.