Page 87 of Foundling

So he surprised her with his sharp observation. “You’ve kept an escape.”

Leita nearly choked on the grape she chewed. Fuck, had it been that obvious?

His smile was gentle when he noticed her distress. He didn’t press or ask more, and so Leita didn’t either. Instead, she ate her grapes carefully, not sure whether to be impressed or dismayed that he’d seen through her so quickly.

The following day, she decided it was time to show him the darker side of the palace. She’d warned him of the miasma, of course, but nothing compared to seeing it for oneself.

Attalus’s wings bobbed before tucking tight to his back, his mouth thinning into a moue of disgust as they walked through hall after hall of dusty, muzzy palace. He held her hand tight as they made a quick tour of the notable places; the Queen’s formal chambers, the formal council rooms, the library, the royal family suites, and the citadel.

Leita hadn’t tarried there in some time. She’d no attachment to the hallowed space like she did the family suites. She and her younger cousins hadn’t been allowed to play there, and the adults only seemed to gather within for serious matters that didn’t interest Leita.

Still, the tangled, gutted mess of it was appalling. Most of the floor had fallen into lower levels, leaving a groaning opening that let in eerie gusts of wind. The central stained-glass window had been blown away, what remained of the metal cames bent outward, perfect for the seabirds to stop and roost.

The miasma was thick here, coating what floor was left in an itchy carpet of fuzz. It covered blood spatter left over from the horrible battle that’d taken place here. Many orcs, fae, and unicorns had died to finally overthrow Amaranthe and reinstate balance within the faelands.

Attalus huffed, blowing dust out of his nose. “Please say I can knock this down.”

“It’s very tempting.”

Before his sneezing became too bad, she led him away, to a nondescript staircase that led down, down, down into the bowels of the palace. A place so deep, it was more bedrock than palace.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are today?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” Leita turned to shoot him a baffled look. He was almost always flirting, but this didn’t feel the same.

His mouth stretched into something between a grin and a grimace. “I’m acquainted with what dungeons look like, doe.”

“Oh.” Leita squeezed his hand. “This isn’t a dungeon, I promise.”

The grin grew, but the grimace didn’t totally disappear. Still, Attalus followed as she led him down into the subterranean grotto.

The air was thick here too, but not just with miasma. Water trickled in along the rocks, giving the air a cool humidity.

“What is this place?” His voice went hushed, as though he understood without explanation that this was a special, sacred space.

“This is…the faelands.” Her hand slipped from his as she delved deeper into the rocky chamber. Leita carefully picked her way across the slick rocks, over to the pool that gathered on its far side. With a wave of her hand, her magic pushed the floating motes of miasma away, revealing the crystalline water beneath.

A faint glow emanated from below the surface, luminescent algae and small creatures flashing blue and green. Their light caught in the veins of pyrite and quartz, making the rockface glitter.

Although Attalus liked glittering things, he didn’t seem to enjoy this place as much as the crystal pavilion above. She’d rarely seen him look so disturbed, his brows knitted as he slowly entered the damp, glowing grotto.

He held his tail aloft and his wings tight to his back, careful where he stepped and touched. “There’s something…” He reached out to touch one of the dripping walls but stopped just short.

“It’s said the very soul of the faelands can be found down here. That Queens commune with it and make their sovereign’s pact.”

“What does it say?”

“Nothing. It’s never spoken to me here.” She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice but failed.

Leita didn’t know why exactly she’d thought to bring him here, only that it was important. That he feel and understand the weight of what she needed to do. Perhaps…she wanted someone to—if not share, then at least understand what it was she bore.

Attalus finally touched his palm to the wet stone. His nostrils flared and his wings twitched at the contact. “It feels almost…sad.”

Yes, exactly. “It’s forlorn,” she said, gratified when Attalus nodded in agreement.

“You both have been tormented by the former Queen.”

“The faelands suffered as much as the fae.”